Latest Posts by treasurenicole - Page 2

Annoying Neighbor

By reddit user conffra

I used to live in a small building downtown. One of the reasons I moved out was the bad neighborhood, including this guy in the apartment right over mine. It was a weird looking fella who mostly kept to himself. Around midnight though, there was frequently a strange noise that got on my nerves. It wasn’t loud, to be fair, but I have really light sleep so it was hard to get my eyes shut with those little bumping sounds going on and on. It reminded me of  high heels walking about, but not as loud, as if the person causing the noise was actually trying to be silent. After a few days, i realized the pattern was always the same, like a recording played over and over with random intervals in between. And that went on for the best part of an year, always the same sequence of bumps, slowly tattooed into my mind, sometimes for hours straight during the night.

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Love (creepypasta)

This is not meant to scare anyone. Calling it a creepy story would be a bit of an insult, because it isn’t one. This is an expression of gratitude toward a friend, a friend who was always there for me. He watched over me as I was growing up and was the best friend any kid could ever have. Even if I didn’t recognize it at the time. He was always there, even though I couldn’t see him, and he was always acting in my best interests, even if I couldn’t understand. I’d like to take some time to share with you our story, because if you’re lucky, you might have a friend like this too. I think I should let you read his letter first. In May of 2010, I bought a new computer and took my old one to the shop to have everything backed up. I’d brought the new computer home and had begun restoring my files from my portable hard drive and reinstalling programs when I noticed that there was a file in the Misc. folder that the shop’s technician had created for files with no other place. It was called HappyBirthdayBaby.txt. Initially I thought it was a message my mom had written for me that I’d never read as intended, but I opened it, and this is what I found: You might find this one day… I’m not great at this computer stuff, but I’ve watched you tinkering with this machine lately, and I think I know how to save this so that you’ll find it. Seeing as it’s time for me to go, I want to leave you this last little message. I know you never met your father, but to me he was Col. Marcus Andrew Stadtfleld, as I’m sure your mother told you. He was a good man, one with the pride of a lion, the strength of a bear and a heart of pure gold. Truth is, I was almost like his son long before you were born. I was his second in command and served with him for three years. I watched as your mother wept when she heard the news, her belly swollen with your soon-to-be debut into this world, and I stayed with her every second of every day. That was, until the day you came into the world- then my focus shifted to you. I watched as they cleaned you and handed you to your mother, and she seemed to look right at me with a knowing eye as I stood over the both of you, almost as if she’d known along, and I’d be willing to bet my last penny she did. I’ve watched you grow and I remember everything, even the things you don’t. You always were such a happy baby and you had seemed to have inherited your father’s sense of humor. When you were getting to be four months old, you would do just about everything to hinder your mother’s attempts at changing you, laughing all the while. You were a wild one at heart, just as you are today. Just like Marcus. When you were about six months old we would play all the time. We had one game in particular, where I would grab your toes and tickle your belly. You would love it, though when your mother came in l’d have to stop, and it always perplexed her as to why you’d abruptly start crying- after a while, she seemed to think you didn’t like her, which is when I realized that I had to back away some. When you were one year old you seemed to develop a sixth sense for me and although you couldn’t really see me so much or so well anymore, you knew I was there. I couldn’t play with you as much as before because I knew it would only hurt you in the long run, but I always kept guard. I knew you remembered seeing me because you had a way of testing my presence, you’d throw toys into the corner where I stood and then wait to see if I would play with them. Now, I know you won’t remember this, but once you threw a bear and a ragdoll at me, and because your mother was busy in the kitchen making dinner, I kept you entertained by putting on a little show. It was nothing special, I just made them dance a little. You were laughing loudly and your mom came in to see what was so funny, but when she saw, she wasn’t laughing. I bet you could mention the bear and ragdoll dance even today and the colour would run right out of her cheeks, but do me a favor and don’t. I think it would be kinder to ask if you ever threw the toys into the corner, that isn’t quite as bad a memory for her as the dancing is. Do you remember your first word? I do… “Love.” Hahah. your mother made damned well sure you knew just how much you were cherished by her, every moment of every day and she would always say, “Love you baby…” I remember you tugging at my heart strings something awful once, when your mother was changing you in the bathroom this one time. You seemed to have caught my reflection in the mirror behind her, and you pointed and said Love (well, more of a wuv, but your mother knew), and she laughed and affirmed it. It was your only word for a time, but as I walked out of the reflection you started getting restless and I knew again that I had to be more stealthy. You were growing more and more every day now, and I couldn’t afford to break my promise to your father, which is why I would have to retreat yet again. I broke the rules many times to protect you, for that promise to your father was everything to me. I remember when you were three and had mastered walking, you were a regular little scout, hahah. You could never keep still- those little legs had opened up a whole new world to you and you weren’t shy at all about exploring it. One day you were with your mother in the market, and a lady with a shiny purse caught your eye. You went running after her, just as another shopper was running with her trolley in front of her, coming the other way. She didn’t spot you, and because you were running after the purse, you didn’t see her either. Breaking the rules was not allowed, but allowing you to get hurt wasn’t permittable either. By the time you noticed her it was already too late, and you fell on your bottom before you could scamper out of her way. Left without any other option, I sent that trolley flying Into the side of a freezer and as it crashed, that woman screamed blue murder, “A-A-A man in a uniform!” she screamed. You simply giggled as the crowd gathered and your mother came running. When she found you at that scene you were safe and sound, and you pointed to the trolley that had smashed the freezer window. You know what you said to her then? “Love mommy.” I was hiding by then, embarrassed to have created such a scene, though I have to admit I was laughing on the inside. As you grew and became more aware so did I, and I finally knew when I could and couldn’t intervene. Doing too much would hurt the both of us, so I chose my moments carefully. You were a smart kid, just like your father, and most of the time knew how to handle any and every situation. If there was an option, you took it, though I slipped up a few times as you were growing up, I do think I did well to keep an eye on you. It was just the little things to make your life a bit easier, things you probably won’t remember, like putting your piano music sheets into your bag at night, turning off your television when you fell asleep, pulling the sheets over you on the colder nights, sorting your drawers, setting your alarm clock, closing your windows and door… You caught me doing one or two of these things a few times, and I want to take the time now to apologize for scaring you. This one time you were doing your homework and fell asleep at your desk, so I filled In all the answers for your math quiz. You’d made such a fuss to your mother earlier about how strict the teacher was about homework and I knew you knew the answers anyway, but you suspected more than ever when you woke up and found that whole half a sheet you left incomplete was done. You were older and had forgotten that we were friends, things you saw in the media about ghosts scared you- and you had every right to be afraid. I just want to say I’m sorry. I never meant to make you cry. If only I had taken a little extra care you’d never have known. I just wanted to keep you safe and happy. As you matured you began to take form as a little lady and as such, and you began to know the evil of men. Though you had your wits about you, you were always taking stupid risks, and watching over you became a little more of a worry for me. Gradually, I had to expose myself more and more, most memorably that night when that no-good boy you brought home started putting the moves on you. Your mother was at work, he was only after one thing, and although I knew it wasn’t my place to choose for you, you were still only a baby girl, just fifteen years old… As he got on top of you and started undressing you, took his top off and began whispering those sweet nothings, your face said it all. You were scared. And when you told him to stop and he wouldn’t, and when you tried to push him off and he got angry, when he struck you and finally tried to put his hand up your skirt, all the evil I kept inside of me broke free at that moment and it was something I couldn’t control. My rage boiled over as I began to growl, the lights flickering, the TV volume rising, the doors and windows crashing open and shut. The keys on your piano began to rattle and with your fathers roar, I yelled, “Get out of the house boy!” He ran out of that room and you tried to follow, but I slammed that door in your face and wouldn’t let the handle go until your mother pulled into the driveway… I’m so sorry kid, that whole thing traumatized you for a while… You became more frightened of me than ever, having such an experience, and I knew from then on in spite of how much I loved you, we could never be friends. Not after what I’d done. Some nights you used to sit awake late into the evening, watching for me, and I’d have to sit in the darkest corner, looking right back at you, unable to reassure you that I wasn’t here to cause you harm. You used to scream, “I hate you! Get out! Leave me alone!” And just as you used to do as a toddler, you would throw things into my corner, only instead of toys for me to play with, this time it was heavy books, CD cases, anything you could get your hands on to get me to move. You used to sit in your bed watching that corner… I always felt terrible about what I did. I’d almost broken that promise to your father- but more importantly, I’d almost broken the personal promise I’d made to you. It was like that until the night you tried to make peace with me, that night you sat up in your bed and said, “If you’re here, I’m sorry, you were only trying to stop him…” I wanted to say something, but I couldn’t, even as you shuffled around nervously and called, “You’re here right? Could you show me a sign?” I wanted so badly to give you something, anything to show you I was there and that I’d heard that, but fearing that you would lose it if I did, I kept silent and just nodded, in that dark corner where you couldn’t see me.. You have to know I was never mad at you, you were just a little girl and that little prick tipped me over the edge… Promise me you’ll never do anything like that again, won’t you? It’s your eighteenth Birthday today, which is exactly why I’m writing this to you. I want to wish you a happy birthday. I’m sure your dad’s getting sick of keeping that bar stool open for me. Live a good life, try not to forget about me, and know you turned out great. Your father would be so proud of you. This letter is my present to you, and don’t you worry about the spooky corner anymore, my final order is complete. I don’t know about you, but I think this trooper deserves a drink; you sure were a handful, hahah! If you find this one day, try calling out to me. Take care, be safe, and live a happy life. Love, Lt. Ashley Gilchrist. PS. If you call out my name, call me what you used to call me as a kid, that always got me to come running. I was gobsmacked when I read this letter; everything finally made sense. All the things that happened when I was growing up. I’d always thought I was seeing things until that day when my ex-boyfriend almost raped me. I’ll be the first to admit that I was scared of him, because I didn’t understand what he was, why he was there or what he was after, but now I see that I had it all wrong. A few days after reading the letter, I asked my mom a few questions about the spooky things that happened when I was growing up. She was very nonchalant about the whole thing- until I mentioned what happened in the market. There, she stopped cleaning, set down her cloth, turned to me and smiled. “You always had a guardian angel watching over you, honey. I don’t know if it was your father or not, but who or whatever it was, it made sure nothing bad ever really happened to you.” As she turned around and began cleaning the dishes, she asked, “So I guess you met it then, right? Your spirit friend?” “Not exactly, he left something for me.” I went upstairs, brought my laptop down and showed her the letter on my computer. My mother was crying by the time she finished and she told me all about my dad’s friend… “He was a kind boy… Marc brought him home once to meet me and he had a certain thing about him. That man was as loyal as a dog to your father, he had a love and respect for him that even I was intimidated by at times… When he came to our home on leave, Marcus nearly had to order him to make himself at home, and he even had to be asked to take his uniform off. He looked up to Marcus almost like a boy looks up to his father. I don’t really know his background but I remember your father telling me that he was a good drinking partner, a fine soldier, and an invaluable friend.” She took a deep breath and choked back a few of her tears before continuing on. “They found that poor boy and your father all alone in a building that had been overrun by their enemy. They’d been out on recon, and their team got separated when they came under fire. The rest of the boys on your father’s team survived, but those two weren’t so lucky… The way they found them was peculiar,” she swallowed heavily, looked me right in the eye and said, “That boy was found on top of your father, riddled with bullets… he was shielding him right up until the moment he died. He could have gotten away but he refused to leave your injured fathers side.” With that we both burst into tears… Love. That’s exactly what he was, he was a guardian. I’d never had any reason to be afraid of him, and I’d have given anything just to tell him I was sorry and that I loved him back. I had no right to have done all those terrible things I did to him at the end, I realized, and I realized that he had loved my father so much not even death could keep him from that promise he’d mentioned in the letter. When I asked what the promise was, my mother looked at me and with tears in her eyes said, “It was made in this very house while they were setting up your room, it was just-” “No matter what happens, promise me you’ll watch over my daughter.”

The Madman and the Music (creepypasta)

"My hand trembles as I attempt to write, for after days of observing the absolute calm and stillness of the city street below, I have resolved to leave the safety of my barricaded apartment to venture through the vacant wreck that was once a city. I know full well that this silence could very well be a subtle trick to lower my defenses and let them in, but I am almost out of supplies and if there is a chance to escape, it must be now.” “While I realize that the travesty that has consumed this city may be an isolated event, you have no doubt heard about it on the news. While you might be well acquainted with the atrocities that were committed here, in the likely case that I do not live to share my secrets, I see it fit to record my experience with this phenomenon before I leave to face an unknown fate outside.” “It all began as a typical day would, without any sign that evil was soon to arrive. I woke early and had finished most of my morning routine, when I heard a peculiar sound emanating throughout the bustling streets below. With toast in hand, I stepped out onto my balcony and peered down the long, flat stretch of pavement. In the distance I spotted a figure accompanied by a strange object, both to far away to identify. Yet, I quickly understood that they were the source of the strange noise. The sound seemed to resonate off of the walls and enter into every window and alleyway. Traffic was at a dead stop and pedestrians seemed to be frozen in place, all turned to face the distant figures. Soon, I noticed that drivers nearest to the figure where exiting their cars and standing motionless, as if in a trance.” “Frustrated with my deteriorating vision, I retreated into my apartment and found my glasses. By the time I had hobbled back to my balcony, the figure had gotten much closer. I could now clearly see that the figure was dressed like a clown. His face was painted white and red, in a traditional fashion, and his clothes were stereotypically colorful and awkward. Despite this, I observed that he was not walking, but flipping and twisting and rolling and doing cartwheels, all with a wide, toothy smile plastered on his face.” “I could also distinguish the object that traveled with him. It was a calliope, a travel sized steam organ, with no musician. It played a looping song continuously and independently of the clown. It also somehow managed to travel alongside the clown at a constant pace. By then, the melody that it had created and had sent throughout the city had become clear. It was a type of circus music that would not seem out of place at a carnival. The tune was indeed pleasant and intriguing, like it was somehow not of this world, but I did not understand why so much attention had been given to this clown and why the police had not arrested him for performing in the middle of crowded intersections. I looked out across the street to another man who had also stood on his balcony to get a better view. He looked genuinely fascinated and mesmerized, but not as confused as I was. He fixated on the clown with wide, spastic eyes.” “In an act that I would later consider to be foolish, I shrugged off the oddity of the situation and went back into my apartment. Surely, I reasoned, despite the energy of the clown and the pleasantness of the melody, this stunt will not last longer than an hour before everyone grows irritated by their delay and continues as normal. Nevertheless, with each passing minute the music became louder and clearer as the clown approached my apartment.” “Tossing aside a book that I was now too distracted to read, confusion turned to anger and I approached the balcony again. If no one would tell him to stop, I would. But as I peered anew at the streets below, no longer were the pedestrians standing motionless like living statues. Instead, the street was alive with chaos and screaming. People scrambled in all directions. Some were climbing over each other. Several short but violent confrontations had broken out and settled in the short time that I had been watching. Through the pandemonium, I spotted the clown and his instrument. They were less than a block away from my window at that point. Joined with them, I saw several other people who wore crudely painted faces. Some of them were also wearing dingy carnival outfits. They were twisting, tumbling, flipping and rolling, just as the clown was doing, but with much less balance or skill. Regardless, they seemed unnaturally enthused and cheerful as they attempted to mimic the clown-like movements, with mixed success. This crowd of pseudo-clowns grew larger as more people joined in, each with white paint smeared on their faces. I then realized why there was so much chaos in the street. The remaining people were rushing to stores and to homes, collecting paint and carnival clothes, painting and dressing themselves as best as they could without help, and joining the ever growing mob of clowns. Many of their faces were covered in paint meant for home exteriors and most were unable to find clown costumes and opted to join the crowd in the common clothes they had put on that morning. My neighbor from across the street was among them, dancing and performing with a wide grin. All the while, the organ played the same tune and the original clown continued to roll, twist, and flip forward, seemingly unfazed by his many followers. By the time the original clown and his organ had passed my apartment, only a few normal-looking people remained outside the mob. Some were still frantically looking for paint, while others stood bewildered and looked just as confused as I was as they watched the crowd continue down the street. Eventually, the horde had nearly reached the other end of town and the music which was once blaring had once again faded to a faint and distant drone.” “I stood motionless for several minutes, reflecting on my own sanity. I could conjure no ounce of logic that could explain the madness that I had just witnessed. Never before had I even imagined anything like that happening to our small city. I could see that the remaining people that dotted the streets below were shocked as well. Eventually, they began returning to their homes, as did I. The rest of the day passed in an eerie silence, save for an occasional echo of that devilish carnival music. At one point later that day, I spotted the crowd crossing an empty intersection two blocks away. They seemed to be weaving through the city like a needle through concrete fabric. They were most likely picking up more brainwashed clowns to join their horde, but why? Why did normal people just abandon their lives in order to follow a random clown? Could it be possible that the music had somehow changed them?” “Then I realized something that I had not considered before. Within the last five years, my advanced age had taken much from me. My strength, eyesight and hearing had deteriorated quickly in that short timeframe. Without the hearing aid that I now ware, I would only be capable of hearing a very limited range of sound frequencies. Remembering that most of the people I saw unaffected by the music were either elderly or near deaf, I realized that my condition was a protection in disguise. It was a barrier between me and the music. If you are reading this and you learn only one thing from my experience, know that the power that this clown has over the minds of its victims stems from the music. If you cannot hear specific frequencies, you may evade the clown’s grasp.” “The rest of the day passed slowly. Periodically, I would return briefly to my balcony, only to be greeted by a city that had been deserted, with the exception of a few individuals that had been gifted with hearing impairments. It was faint, but at times, if it carried just right on the afternoon breeze, I could hear familiar carnival music in the far distance. Eventually, the sun drifted quietly over the horizon and I decided to try and get some sleep.” “Nearly an hour after midnight had struck, I was awoken by a distant noise becoming increasingly more audible. I awoke from my bed, picked up my glasses, and approached my balcony once more. Somehow, power to the city had been turned off. Though the street lamps and windows of the city were as dark as night, a light was approaching from one end of the street. As it drew near, I realized that the clown and his horde of followers were returning. Many of them were carrying torches and the familiar melody that had haunted the morning could be heard clearly again. Many thousands had joined him since then. Adults, elderly, and children alike, all had painted faces and were spinning, flipping, and rolling onwards. Some people, obviously physically impaired, tried desperately and painfully to twist and contort for an imaginary crowd. Others clapped and waved as their heads turned in all directions, as if they were accepting applause from the surrounding, vacant windows. I watched in horror as one man, while holding a torch, attempted to walk on his hands, only to crash painfully to the ground. The torch ignited his carnival outfit and he was soon engulfed in burning flame. Despite this, he seemed oblivious to his condition as he stood back up and blew kisses to his imagined audience. Before long, his burns proved too severe. His charred body succumbed to his injuries and he collapsed to the ground. The clowns surrounding him did not seem to notice however, as they continued parading down the street, trampling over his lifeless body as they performed onward. In fact, I could spot five or six other corpses trailing behind the massive crowd of oblivious clowns, likely having suffered similar deaths. There was one clown however, who seemed completely aware of his surroundings. He skipped eagerly next to the organ that had accompanied him earlier that day. I recognized him as that same original clown that must have started it all. He was the only face in thousands that had locked eyes with mine. As he stared at me and neared my balcony, his face contorted into a vicious smile.” “Before he reached my apartment however, an elderly man had emerged from an abandoned store from across the street. He walked in the direction of the crowd with determination and anger plastered on his wrinkled face. Before he was within 50 feet of the horde, every clown had stopped. Each of them stood motionless as they watched the old man walk up to the mob and enter into the crowd in an attempt to confront the leader. When the man finally reached him, his shouts of anger and profanity were so loud and powerful, that I could hear them over the blaring music from where I stood. All the while, the original clown looked on with a wide grin. After a few moments, the clown tilted his head back and began laughing hysterically. Without warning, the mob enveloped the man. Hundreds of arms reached desperately at him. The man screamed as they frantically pulled and tore at his thrashing frame. Within seconds, his writhing body was nothing more than bits of debris that were being calmly passed throughout the crowd. The relieved clowns each took turns placing bits of bloody meat on their lips, cheeks and noses, giving them the classic appearance of stereotypical clowns.” “At some point during the fray, the original clown had shifted his gaze to me once again. Panic rushed through me and I stumbled to the front door as fast as my withered legs could carry me. I locked the door with every lever and mechanism that it had. I then managed to heave a decorative china cabinet on its side with a crash and use its weight to barricade the door. When I was sure it was secure, I sat on my sofa, still trembling. That clown must have been determined to have me, because for the rest of the night, they danced and played their music. When morning came, the crowd had not left or ceased their eternal performance. Eventually, hours turned to days as I waited in my apartment. Despite my best efforts to block out the music, it seemed to have become trapped in my mind like an unbreakable record player. Even when I would cover my ears and turn off my hearing aids, I could still hear it perfectly in my head. Before the first day had ended however, I began to find particular segments of the song somewhat appealing. As much as that sickened and terrified me, it was welcomed as I had feared losing my sanity.” “But that felt like so long ago. It has been four days since the crowd of clowns arrived outside my apartment and decided to camp there. All the while the clowns have not stopped performing, the music has not ended, the original clown has not turned his stare away from me, and I have slept no more than ten hours total. That is until two hours ago, when the music suddenly stopped and, by the time I had reached my balcony, the clowns were gone, save for a few corpses that littered the street. It is probably a trap, but I don’t care anymore. My small pantry is out of food and pangs of hunger have begun to blur my judgment. Ever since this all started, life has been so hard. Sometimes I think that things would have been better if I had just been converted into a clown in the first place, like all the others. At times, they seem like the lucky ones.” “Regardless, I’m out of options. I need to find food and other survivors. My plan is to put on an old clown suit that I just so happened to have lying around from last Halloween, paint my face white and red, and try to pass casually by any clown I see until I can escape the city. There are clowns waiting for me on the other side of my apartment door. I have heard the scraping of their shoes as they dance and perform ceaselessly and speechlessly in the hallway outside. Perhaps they will not notice that I have still retained my free will. If that doesn’t work, maybe they’ll appreciate my outfit and allow me to join them as one of their own. After all, they seem like pretty happy people. The music is good too. Maybe it won’t be so bad.” “Well, here I go. To anyone who reads this, I hope that your outfit is as good as mine.” Outside the window, the music began again and dissipated as the crowd filed out of the apartment complex that they had been hiding in and continued down the street. A gloved hand held the note clasped between spotless, white fingers as the gentle breeze traveled through the open window and ruffled the paper. Having read it several times, a clown grinned with the sound of crackling paint. Satisfied, the hand loosened its grip and allowed the wind to carry the paper fluttering out the window and into the desolate streets below.

I found a diary while I was out hiking in New Hampshire. I have to admit, I’m thoroughly creeped out by what was written inside.

by reddit user iia/ tumblr user unsettlingstories

The diary was from a while ago; 21 years, according to the dates. It was sealed really well in plastic wrap and stuffed in a watertight bag. If I hadn’t hit the thing with my shovel when digging a hole to take a dump, I never would’ve found it. I wish that would’ve been the case because I can’t stop thinking about the stuff I read. I’m only going to share the fucked up parts, but all I’m leaving out is the lady talking about how she and her husband were spending the month camping and having a good time. There, I just saved you 5 pages. Here’s where it got weird:

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My grandfather always served an extra plate

by reddit user shiloh667

My grandfather died two weeks ago. After the funeral, my family sat around my grandmother’s living room, talking about the nice memories we had with him. All of us grandchildren mentioned how he always spoke in different voices when reading, even if it was just the newspaper. We spoke of the stories he used to tell us about his childhood.

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The Sallow Man

“Have you ever heard of The Sallow Man?”, That’s what Timmy Morrison asked me in seventh grade. Timmy was my best friend. We did nearly everything together. It was Friday, and we were sitting in lunch period discussing what we were going to do when he came over to stay the night after school. “No, what the hell is that?” I asked him, rolling my eyes because I figured this was going to be another one of Timmy’s story’s that his sister told him. Timmy’s face put on that he’d always put on when he was talking about something that someone hadn’t heard of before. “My sister told me about him, she said he comes to you if you say some words in front of a mirror, I don’t remember it all but I wrote down what she told me. I figured we could try it out at your house.” I rolled my eyes to make it seem like I thought it was childish, but in truth I was interested. Creepy stuff like that always interested me, even though I knew it wasn’t real, I just liked hearing the stories. I didn’t want Timmy to know that I wanted to hear about it though, because then he’d just have something to be smug about. “Is this just more of that ‘Bloody Mary’ crap where she just comes out of the mirror to kill you?” I asked him, pretending to pay attention more to my mashed potatoes than the conversation. “NO! The Sallow Man comes out of the mirror after you recite his poem, then he kills anyone you ask him to, that’s what my sister said anyway.”, Timmy said as he turned to eat at his own tray. ‘There was a poem involved?’ I thought. Now, I really did have to know more. “What do you mean, what poem?” I asked him. Timmy lazily reached into one of his many folders that he carried around for school and pulled out a piece of paper that was a bit crinkled. He slid it over to me on the cafeteria table, and I examined it without picking it up. This is what it read. In dark halls within the after, From those halls you hear my laughter. Dark thoughts entreat your mind, To for now break down my bind. I will take what ails you in this land, And I will leave no trace, for I am Sallow Man. I nearly laughed as I read the last lines. I was up for anything spooky sure, but this was really corny. “Timmy, you don’t really believe this crap do you? Your sister was probably just messing with you.” Timmy didn’t say anything at first, he just concentrated on his tray for a moment, then he said, “Brandon, do you remember last year when my parents were fighting a lot? My Dad was drinking all the time and I stayed over at your house nearly every night for a while?” Of course I remembered that, Timmy WAS over at my house every night. My parents allowed it because they knew what was going on. It was a small town, everyone did. “Yeah Tim, I remember.” I said, the mood now solemn. “My Dad hit my Mom a lot, and whenever me or my sister was home he would call me a bastard and he would call my sister a whore. It was a nightmare.” I could sense Timmy’s gaze turn towards me so I looked up from my tray as well. He stared at me for a moment, waiting for me to say something, so I did. “I thought your Dad stopped drinking though, and everything was okay?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood a bit. Timmy responded then, with anger starting to edge into his voice. “Yeah, he stopped drinking, but nothing got better. Sure he stopped hitting Mom, but she barely speaks to him or anyone else in the house anymore. I know it’s because of him, I know she’s still afraid of him.” I was a bit shocked, Timmy had never mentioned anything about that before. I just figured once Timmy started staying at his house again everything was fine. “So what, are you going to sic the Sallow Man on your Dad? Timmy that’s nuts. It’s just some story that your sister probably heard from one of the other seniors.” I told him. “But what if there’s a chance it would work? I need to try Brandon, but I want you to be with me.” Timmy looked dead serious. “I don’t know Tim; it just seems silly” I told him. “Please Brandon, I need you there, please.” Timmy gave me a look of pure desperation, and I felt sorry for him. I decided that I’d be there to support him. He lived in a broken home, and he was grasping at straws. I knew it couldn’t be good for him, but he was my best friend, what choice did I have? “Okay Tim, I got your back. Let’s summon a ghost.” The next thing I knew, it was after school, and Timmy and I had locked ourselves in my small downstairs bathroom at home. “Do the lights need to be off or anything?” I asked. “No, at least I don’t think so. I think all I have to do is recite the poem in front of the mirror, and then he appears.” Timmy pulled out the piece of paper with the poem on it that he had in his back pocket, then cleared his throat. I stood back and leaned against the wall with my arms crossed. Usually when people did this sort of thing it was in the dark, maybe with a lit candle or two. But the lights were on, and the floral wall paper that was all around my bathroom didn’t exactly inspire fear, so I felt pretty stupid in that bathroom with Timmy. I was just thankful Mom and Dad were still at work so they didn’t catch us and wonder what was wrong with their son. Timmy finally began to speak after what seemed like minutes. “In dark halls within the after, From those halls you hear my laughter. Dark thoughts entreat your mind, To for now break down my bind. I will take what ails you in this land, And I will leave no trace, for I am Sallow Man.” Timmy spoke loudly and clearly. When he finished, he held his breath, waiting for something to happen. At that point I was absolutely convinced Timmy was wasting his time, I sighed and closed my eyes waiting for him to realize the same thing. I heard him gasp, which I took to be a sound of defeat. I opened my eyes and was about to console Timmy, but then I saw the real reason he had made a sound. When I opened up my eyes, I saw the mirror no longer showed our reflections, but a long dark hallway. The hallway’s floor, walls, and even its ceiling seemed to be moving, Undulating back and forth like the insides of some giant worm. The hallway was poorly lit by some unseen source, and at the very end of it I could see the shape of what looked like a man moving toward the mirror. For a moment, I was stuck in disbelief. I couldn’t move, I could only watch as the figure in the mirror came closer and slowly, its features became clearer and clearer. It was a man, or what seemed to be a man, bald and completely naked. His skin was a pale, sickly yellow. He was skinny, so emaciated that his jaundiced skin was taut against his skeleton, and every one of his ribs were visible. With thin and lanky legs, he walked ever closer to the mirror with a shambling gait. His long, ghoulish arms dragged his knuckles along the hall as he walked, parting the undulating floor for fleeting moment before the floor came back together. When I noticed this I squinted my eyes to try and sharpen my vision in an attempt to see what it was that was making the floor and walls quiver like they were. The cause of the moving floor became clear as they started to move from within the mirror, and out into the bathroom. Cockroaches. The insects began to spill out of the mirror and onto the sink and floor below. That was enough for me, Timmy and I had to get out of that bathroom. I reached out for Timmy’s arm and tried to pull him away, but he would not budge. He stood transfixed, his eyes glued to the mirror and the nightmare that was approaching. I tried a few more times to pull him away, shouting at him to snap out of it, but he wouldn’t move. It was if something unnatural was holding him in place, and wouldn’t let him go. I gave up, and I turned tail, hauling ass for the door. As soon as I reached the door handle, thousands of cockroaches moving impossibly fast covered the handle and immediately after the door, leaving the door obscured completely by writhing and hissing insects. I yelled, cursing and screaming as I turned around to go for the window on the other side of the bathroom. I was silenced when I was met with the sight of a room, no longer recognizable as my bathroom, but was now more reminiscent of that hallway in the mirror. The walls and ceiling was covered in insects. When I looked down, I saw that the roaches covered the floor below, making only two small spaces where my feet stood. I dared not move then, I didn’t know what would happen if I were to step on one of those bugs. I had the awful thought that if I were to move at all, the insects would strip my bones completely of flesh. I lifted my head slowly to the now dimly lit room, flashes of light would strobe here and there as the roaches crawled along the light shade on the ceiling. I could now that two yellow and gnarled hands had appeared on either side of the mirror, and I knew the Sallow Man had come. Timmy stood there, his eyes still wide, his stature still unmoved. I distinctly remember a smell then, a sickly smell that called to mind dirty bed pans, and I had to cover my mouth and nose not to gag. Still, this didn’t seem to bother Timmy what-so-ever. When the awful smell came, so did then did the Sallow Man’s head emerge from the mirror. His bald head was faced downward, and his neck stretched far into the room until his head was inches in front of Timmy’s face. A voice came then, a hissing voice that seemed to come from the insects, and echo all around the room. “Who is the one to be taken to the after?” The voice said. Timmy moved then, for the first time since he recited the poem, by smiling a wide and unnerving grin. “My Father!” Timmy said, loud and clear, as if delivering the death sentence himself. In retrospect, I suppose he was. There was a murmuring sound then, as all of the insects began to vibrate loudly. Then after a moment, the insects parted and swarmed around the wall to the left of the mirror, and a man; who I recognized to be Timmy’s father, rose from within the wall of swarming bugs. His face was pale and his eyes were wide with fear. The insects were swarming him, presumably pinning him to the wall. I’m sure he would be screaming if the cockroaches weren’t covering his mouth. “This is the one to be brought into the after?” That awful hissing echo came again, entreating an answer from Timmy, and without breaking his grin Timmy said. “Yes!” As if heeding the call of Timmy’s word, the insects then began swarming into Timmy’s father’s mouth. His eyes showed his desperate fear as thousands of cockroaches began eating him from the inside out. I would say it was gruesome, but the insects were quick with their work. They devoured every bit of Timmy’s father within seconds, leaving nothing left. Had my eyes not been glued to what was happening I might have blinked, and I would have missed it. I looked back to Timmy, who had a satisfied and almost, relieved looks on his face. But his look soon became one of terror as the Sallow Man spoke once more. “Now, you will join me in the after, boy. Such is the price to be paid.” Timmy didn’t move at all, save for the horrified shock that crawled over his face. I don’t know if it was terror that kept him in place, or if it was the Sallow Man. But Jesus Christ, I wish I didn’t see what happened next. The Sallow Man lifted his head slowly, revealing a face that had no features. No eyes, no nose, and no discernable marks what so ever as far as I could tell. The only thing there was a mouth. The Sallow Mans lips, like the rest of him, were stretched tight, making his human-like and yellow teeth seem bigger than they were. Stunned into helplessness by my own fear, I could do nothing but watch as the Sallow Man’s jaw unhinged and stretched to an impossible size. He then reached for Timmy and grabbed him, picking him up just as easy as if he weighed nothing at all. The Sallow Man then shoved Timmy into his mouth whole. Just like that, gone. Impossibly, my best friend was thrown into that awful ghoul’s throat. I didn’t even hear Timmy scream as the thing swallowed him. Tears were falling from my eyes freely as the Sallow Man closed his maw and turned his attention toward me as the insects began to retreat into the mirror behind him. Just before the Sallow Man disappeared behind the mirror, he smiled at me. I could feel his eyes, eyes that he did not have, burn into me. A buzzing sound filled my ears then, and I began to faint. Just before I hit the ground, I saw the Sallow Man duck his head back into the mirror and disappear. My Mother arrived home from work at around four o’ clock, and she found me on the bathroom floor passed out with the door closed. When Mom woke me up, my head was hazy, and it took me a moment to recall what had happened, and it was hard to think with Mom asking over and over if I was okay. But when I remembered I became frantic, telling her something had happened to Timmy, and he disappeared, but I left out the part about the Sallow Man. My Mother looked at me like I was crazy. “Who’s Timmy, dear?” She asked with a raised eyebrow. “Mom you know Timmy, he’s my best friend!” I yelled. “Oh you made a new friend, what do you mean he disappeared?” I started to tell her that Timmy had been my best friend all my life, I was going to tell her that he had stayed over almost all of last year. But a sinking feeling in my stomach stopped me, and I pushed passed my Mother to the house phone. I was going to make a call to confirm my suspicion, but I hoped on hope I was wrong. I dialed Timmy’s number, and his Mother answered. “Hello?” I took in a deep breath and asked. “Hello, is Timmy there?” I asked. “I don’t know any Timmy, maybe you have the wrong number sweetie?” Timmy’s Mother sounded much happier than I ever had heard her before, it wasn’t enough to stop the tears from forming in my eyes, but it did prompt the next question I asked. “Are you married?” I asked, knowing how silly it sounded, but I had to know. “No, but I don’t see how that’s any of your business, does your Mother know you’re using the phone?” I didn’t reply, I just hung up. I turned and went up into my room, I dodged all my Mom’s questions and I went straight to bed. As I lie there, I thought hard about everything that had happened. I wondered if Timmy would want things this way. It was clear from the look of terror on his face, that he had no idea he would have to pay such a heavy cost. I wondered if his Timmy’s sister knew about that part of the deal, if she left it out on purpose, or if she just didn’t think it mattered, because after all it was just a stupid poem. But the biggest question that I kept asking myself, was Timmy still alive? I saw that thing swallow him whole, but was it possible in whatever world he was in, that he was still there with the Sallow Man? I hoped not, but hopes or not, I got my answer when Monday morning came. In class, all I could do was stare at Timmy’s empty seat, and it was making me sick thinking about it. I asked my teacher if I could use the restroom, and was excused. I went straight to the sink once I made my way to the bathroom and turned on the tap. I turned the hot water on all the way, and began to splash water into my face. When I was done, dried myself with paper towel, and my eyes met the now fogged-up bathroom mirror. There, in the condensation, were three words. ‘HELP ME BRANDON’

My sister was murdered and she won’t shut up about it

by sixpenceee user EZmisery, tumblr, facebook

As kids, my sister Cassie and I didn’t know we were different. How could we? We spent all of our time in the house. Our parents never let us play outside. They said this was for our own protection. I remember clearly our father outlining all of the horrors of the world beyond our front door. “Vicious animals, dangerous men, deathly illnesses.” Everyday brought a new reason why we couldn’t venture outside the walls of the house. I realized the truth much later; they were embarrassed of us. Cassie and I were close, literally and metaphorically. We spent every moment together. I’ve read that twins are often this way, but we were more than that. We woke up at the same time, closed our eyes for bed at the same time. We would often dream the exact same dream. We read books together (she’d read the left page, I’d read the right). Our parents said we were unnaturally close. This didn’t make sense to us at the time.

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And Then There’s Martha

By creepypasta user egodram

I live in the middle of nowhere, far away from the rest of my friends. I have to wake up very early in the morning to catch my bus and I usually eat my breakfast as it’s bringing me to school. I don’t have any brothers or sisters; There’s just me, the Ziggy the cat, and my Dad.

And then there’s Martha, the chronically pissed-off woman who insists that I call her my Mother. But lately I don’t feel so inclined to do so.

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MY GIRL 

by reddit user SleepDeprivedPuppy

Her name is Jessica. She is 26 years old, and she is my girl. I had never believed in love at first sight until I met her. It was a rainy day in September last year. I was sitting in the shelter of the bus stop waiting for the rain to slow down so I could continue my walk to my apartment, when she sat down on the bench next to me with her newspaper.

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Ed Gein

Serial killer Ed Gein was obsessively devoted to his mother, a religious fanatic. After her death, Gein began robbing graves—keeping body parts as trophies, practicing necrophilia, and experimenting with human taxidermy. He then turned to murder, killing at least two women in 1957. Gein inspired film characters Norman Bates (Psycho), Jame Gumb (The Silence of the Lambs) and Leatherface (Texas Chainsaw Massacre).

Obsessively devoted to his mother until her death in 1945, Gein never  left home or dated women. After she died, he became increasingly  deranged and eventually began prowling cemeteries to unearth recently  buried female corpses. He would cut off body parts and keep them as  trophies, returning the corpses seemingly undisturbed to their graves.  In 1954, Ed Gein turned from grave robbing to murder, a task he was less   meticulous about. Police implicated him in the murders of two women in   1957. During the investigations, police learned that he had practiced   necrophilia and experimented with human taxidermy.

Gein was ultimately found guilty of murder by reason of insanity.  He was confined in various criminal psychiatric institutions, including the Central State Hospital in Wisconsin and the Mendota Mental Health Institute, where he died of respiratory and heart failure due to cancer, on July 26, 1984, at age 77. His killings live  on as the infamous inspiration for such film characters as Norman Bates (Psycho), Jame Gumb (The Silence of the Lambs) and Leatherface (Texas Chainsaw Massacre). (Source)

The Sandman

The estimated reading time for this story is greater than or equal to 18 minutes. This story is credited to Tam Lim. 

“Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things that escape those who dream only at night.”      -Edgar Allen Poe, “Eleanora”

“Go to bed and wait for the Sandman.”

Even as it came out of James’ mouth it seemed to him a strange thing to say, and he was not sure why he had, but for some reason it worked: Daniel went to bed.

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Midnight Dancer

Submission by: Mr.Baubas

Have you ever had one of those feelings that something was wrong? I don’t mean during the day either, but at night. I mean that sudden unprovoked feeling of dread that commands you to wake. 

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Her Name was Emma

Her name was Emma.

That’s what everyone called her, anyways. Sometimes they would call her Em, sometimes someone would slip up and call her Emily. She was a part of our group of girlfriends growing up in a large town, not quite big enough to be a city but big enough that there was still privacy between neighbors.

We called ourselves the “Unbreakable Six,” because there was me, Summer, Mel, Nina, and Jules.

And there was Emma.

Emma started off as a practical joke by the other girls in the fourth grade. It was probably Jules that started it. She was always playing pranks of people. In high school, she even got suspended once for going too far, and had to babysit for hours to buy that girl a new cellphone. Or maybe it was Summer, who always seemed too busy with music and band to think of such an elaborate prank. Or maybe it was Mel and Nina, who were best friends and could have lived without us, always conspiring together like they were twin sisters.

Either way, I bought my lunch, cold cut sandwich and carrot sticks and a pint of orange juice (I couldn’t stand milk; it would account for how short I ended up being) and walked over to our lunch table. Jules looked excited, waving me over to them.

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My brother died when I was a child. He kept talking. I think people should know what he said

by reddit user TheEmporersFinest

Although rather lengthy, I received many messages to make a post about this story. After reading, I understood why. 

We’d all known Dennis had less than a week and we’d all braced ourselves, for all the good that would do. This was going to tear us apart and leave a ragged gaping hole in all our lives. But that would be it. It would fit within our understanding of things and we could all assume he went wherever we thought people go. That would have been so much easier, so much less troubling than what actually happened.

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Milk White

by reddit user EZmisery

https://www.facebook.com/EZmisery

http://ezmisery.tumblr.com/

I was born and raised in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Unless you live nearby you’ve probably never heard of it. Even people in the large Wisconsin cities (Madison, Milwaukee) don’t know we exist. Wisconsin in general is known for our cheese, our cows, and our love of beer. And of course for our excess of mental institutions and serial killers.

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The Girl in the Photograph

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The driver got out of the car and tried to help him, but it was too late. Suddenly he saw the picture and picked it up.

He saw a cute girl holding up three fingers.

Esteban

by reddit user alackofcoasters

As a teacher, I get to see and hear a lot of horror stories, maybe not the kind that you are used to. Kids being abused by teachers or parents, students who get hooked on hard drugs and lose scholarships, even teenagers getting raped in the classroom. Bad things happen to good kids. It breaks my heart. All in all, it’s all pretty horrific, some of the things they warn you about in school when you’re getting your teaching credential.

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love you <33

I love you too :) <<333

New Face

There's this new face I see in mirror

It has no more tiers or fears in the eyes

No more frown that made me drown

There's a new face in town

Who's could it be

If I looked in the mirror to see

There is a change in me

There is now sun in my eyes that shine

I'm doing just fine

This is a new sign

A new start

There is no more broken heart

It is filled

All my worries have been killed

A cow with beatiful eyes ^o^

You're gorgeous!

awww thank you :D