Have you ever forgotten your phone?
When did you realise you’d forgotten it? I’m guessing you didn’t just smack your forehead and exclaim ‘damn’ apropos of nothing. The realisation probably didn’t dawn on you spontaneously. More likely, you reached for your phone, pawing open your pocket or handbag, and were momentarily confused by it not being there. Then you did a mental restep of the morning’s events.
In my case, my phone’s alarm woke me up as normal but I realised the battery was lower than I expected. It was a new phone and it had this annoying habit of leaving applications running that drain the battery overnight. So, I put it on to charge while I showered instead of into my bag like normal. It was a momentary slip from the routine but that was all it took. Once in the shower, my brain got back into ‘the routine’ it follows every morning and that was it.
This wasn’t just me being clumsy, as I later researched, this is a recognised brain function. Your brain doesn’t just work on one level,…
When I was twelve, I came to the conclusion that everyone in the world, including my own family, was against me. I was never a problemed child, but my parents sure treated me like one.
For example, I used to need to be home by 5:00pm every day. This clearly restricted my amount of “play time” outdoors. I wasn’t allowed to have friends over to play at the house, nor was I allowed to go over anyone else’s. I had to finish homework directly after I came home from school, no matter how long it took. My parents refused to buy me video games and forced me to read books and then write a book report on them to prove I actually read it!
Now, even though those rules listed above were quite frustrating to me as a child, they aren’t what upset me most. What really hurt me was the lack of compassion on behalf of my parents. My mother was a bitter woman who always made me feel guilty of accidents or mistakes I’ve made. My father only knew…
Hello. I suffer from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, which is an anxiety disorder in which people have unwanted and repeated thoughts, feelings, ideas, or behaviors. In other words, my life is a a systematic pattern.
But yesterday, I experienced a flaw in my own system.
I awoke that morning in my lakeside home promptly at 6:45AM, as I do every morning. Before leaving my bedroom I made sure to touch the doorknob three times. I have to. I need to.
On my way down stairs, I made sure not to step on the second to last step. I never touch that step. I just can’t.
I made my usual breakfast of toast, scrambled eggs, and black coffee. I never eat anything else in the morning, just always those three.
Turning my iPad on, I made sure to check the local news headlines, like usual. But today, something was… Missing.
I couldn’t place my finger on it. Did I forget something? The strange feeling lingered with me all the way to my car. On my way out the front door I made certain to lock my door,…
When I was a small child, I was terrified of the dark. I still am, but back when I was around six years old I couldn’t go a full night without crying out for one of my parents to search beneath my bed or in my closet for whatever monster I thought was waiting to eat me. Even with a night light, I would still see dark shapes moving around the corners of the room, or strange faces looking in on me from my bedroom window. My parents would do their best to console me, telling me that it was just a bad dream or a trick of the light, but in my young mind I was positive that the second I fell asleep, the bad things would get me. Most of the time I would just hide under the blankets until I became tired enough to stop worrying, but every now and then I would become so panicked that I would run screaming into my parents room, waking up my brother and sister in the process. After an…
I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. I don’t know why this works, but it does. The faster I type, the further away they are. Sometimes, I think I might be able to type fast enough to make them go away. Yet, if I stop for only a moment they will return.
I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. If I knew why they targeted me, it might be worth some comfort. It would at least let me know what my fade would be when I tire. Will I be eaten? Am I to be tormented? Will they simply kill me? Just knowing what was to come next would be enough.
I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. I can see them. They wait in the hallway. Their large bestial bodies hunched over, as if they are ready to pounce. Yet their faces, Christ … their faces, have a placid calm. They are in no hurry.
I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. For some reason, my eyes can’t focus…
They say that these woodlands contain the path to paradise itself. It has been a long way to reach these mythical gardens, my knees are scraped and bloodied from the various thorns nipping at my legs along the path. Snakes and sirens were attempting to seduce me with their hypocrisy, but I refused to heed their calling. I was a pure at heart, unspoiled by all temptation and evil.
My path was blocked as something was swaying back and forth from a tree. I looked at it closely. I could make out a face with long black hair and some dark colored stubble leading down its chin. Its head was cast down with closed eyes. It was a dead man hanging from a tree.
I walked closer to it in disbelief and fear. What would a hanged man be doing here on the trail to Heaven? I looked at its face when it sudden jerked its head up towards me. I jumped back in shock. The man opened his eyes, blank and pitiless before they focused their selves on me. He opened his mouth to speak, quiet and choked, and whispered this:
“Perfection is the great abyss…leave now lest you share my fate; a ghost dangling at Heaven’s gate.”
With its warning spoken, the dead man hung idle once more. I tried to speak to him, confused and distraught about what he meant by a punishment, but I got no further response from him. I looked at him in a confused anger.
What was there to fear about paradise? I certainly am not on the wrong path, as he had mentioned Heaven. I was free of all man’s sins and malice, surely they could let me pass? Maybe the man was a sinner and was being punished for trying to reach grace?
Not heeding the deceased man’s warning, I started to walk past the hung man, pushed on by curiosity to find out why he would have spoken such a thing. Surely, there was nothing to fear. I walked through the sycamores and the blushes. My knees scraped once more from the wild, torturous…
For me, collecting is more than a hobby – it is a way of life.
To me, there is no greater thrill than that moment when you complete a set or find the one rare piece that has eluded antiquarians for years. I love things – cards, figures, dolls, puppets, watches. And as my desire to surround myself with material possessions grew, I found that I did not care for the things so much – but the thrill of collecting them.
So after I’d collected several years worth of goods, it was only natural that the store grew up around me. Little Dreams Antiques. Say you know me from our little chat, and I’ll give you a discount on two items of your choice – and we’ll both share a good laugh.
… Where to start, where to start. I’m fifty-something years old, set in my ways, and my recent passion has been collecting video games. Not to play – I’m a bit out of the loop when it comes to their stories or art. I’ve got a hunch that in the next twenty years, rarer video games will fill the niche that baseball cards seem set to create. And with rare mint games already going for a decent amount on the market, I’ve been looking at them as sort of a nest egg.
Now, my store has achieved something of a reputation for having rare stock on hand. As such, even though I’m located smack in the city center, I’ve got a pretty reliable core of customers. Old friends, if you will – the creme of the crop. I enjoy a good conversation with them almost as much as knowing that the collectibles I sell will find themselves in good hands.
I’d be lying if I said she’d made it into that inner-circle. She was too young – too young!.. – to be an old-timer, and bought electronics almost exclusively. At first I’d seen her loitering in the back of the store with her grey clothes and her down-cast face and assumed she was one of the gawkers that never bought nothing. Turned…
Let me start by pointing out that I have been told, and have figured out on many occasions, that I have an over-active imagination. That being said, I have thought a lot about the night that this story will focus on and I can’t talk myself into believing that it didn’t happen. As the title says, this is a true story. I do write Creepy Pastas, but this story is true, it really happened, or so it did as far as I’m concerned. I don’t share this with many people, so feel good, you’re in a way, special.
A few years ago, I lay in my bed one night doing what I do every night, thinking. I thought a lot in bed, sometimes clouding sleep. I couldn’t help it, the dark and absolute silence… I felt so alone and, well, thoughtful. At the time, I slept in a loft bed, it was a good way to save space in my room because I could slide other small furnishings under it and use the rest of the open room for whatever I want. Another thing to note: I lived on the second floor of my building. My families’ apartment was on the first floor, but it was a two-story apartment, and my room was on the second floor. The building was actually a bit elevated off the ground too, so it felt more like my room was two and a half floors up. My window faced outside to a small courtyard that spanned next to the entire long apartment building. Now that the scene is set up, try to put yourself in my position, in my room, that night.
I lay there, thinking, dozing off when I notice a small noise. It’s hard to describe it now, it might have been easier the day after it happened. The best word I can think of to describe it was… a scratch. A long, drawn-out scratch. I lifted my head off my pillow to find where it was…
There was a loud bang on the door, followed by more equally loud bangs. The woman stood up from her couch and walked towards the door. She was watching the news which was reporting recent kidnappings in her area and was wondering when her husband would return home from work. As the woman walked to the door, she wondered who it could be at this hour. It was almost 10 o’clock at night. Could it be her husband? No. He would have come through the garage. Or even the back door. The woman reached the door and cautiously unlocked it, then slowly opened it just large enough so she could peek though. When she realized who it was she quickly opened the door. The woman welcomed the police officer and asked him what she could do for him at this time of night. The officer glanced into the woman’s eyes and slowly said,
“Ma’am, you need to come with me. Your husband went off road and crashed into the nearby forest.” The woman stared back at the police officer for what seemed like many minutes before replying,
“Take me to him.”
She followed the officer back to his vehicle and told the officer to get her there as fast as he could. She was in shock.
“How could this have happened?” the woman asked.
“Well ma’am, we believe your husband either swerved out of the way of something, or he lost control of the vehicle. When we found his car, he was inside and unconscious. There should be paramedics on the seen taking care of him now. I was told to come and get you.”
The woman was trying to comprehend this. She needed to see her husband now. She needed to talk to him before it was too late. The police vehicle pulled onto the highway and started to gain speed.
“Not much farther now.” The officer said.
After a couple minutes of silence, the car pulled onto the side of the highway. About 10 feet up ahead, the woman could see a busted guard rail and tire…
Let me start off by saying that as far as I can remember, this is all true, it’s not ‘creepypasta’ or anything like my previous posts, there’s no satisfying conclusion or an explanation, so if that’s what you’re here for, I’m sorry but you won’t find it, but this is how I remember it. It’s a story of two incidents that occurred in my mother’s house separated by years of normality, the latest of which happening in the early hours of the morning beginning the 26th of December 2011.
Though the 2 events are years apart, the first happening when I was just a child, not too young, but young enough to be terribly afraid of the dark. That’s not to say I’m over it, it’s just that bit harder to justify. Anyway, I’m getting off track, I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that although years apart, for the sake of closure, let’s say at least 8 or 10, that the 2 incidents are somehow connected. Like, a lingering feeling that rears it’s ugly head as I lay mine down to sleep, a feeling that still haunts me. A feeling, that it’s not over. It could be another 10 years, it could be tonight, but whatever happened, was too weak, too tame, to just be finished.
Back to what I came here to say, the first incident, the first encounter if you will. Years back, one of the few memories of my childhood that unfortunately, remains crystal clear in my head. I was watching T.V in the attic. Now, our attic isn’t a normal attic, it was converted to a bedroom, which is now used by my mother, it’s nothing creepy or out of the ordinary, it wasn’t an old black and white T.V, it’s a relatively new “Daewoo” flatscreen, and the room is better furnished than my own. Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked again, I just don’t really want to think about it. I was watching T.V in the attic, which is where our story starts.
It was getting late, it was time for me to go to…
A few weeks ago, I went on a school trip with my school. We visited a few museums while we were away, so we had to spend a few nights at a hotel. It was bound to be just another boring experience, but this time that was not the case.
When we got back to the hotel on the first night, I met Nicole who was from another school that was visiting the same museums as us. She introduced me to some of her friends and we got along pretty good, so we decided to meet again in the morning. After a couple of hours I went back to my room and got ready for bed. It was almost midnight, and as I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom I could hear some girls laughing, so I put my ear against the wall and listened. It sounded like Nicole and her friends giggling and talking. I assumed it was just some gossip about other girls or something and decided to go to sleep.
The following day, when I met up with Nicole and the crew, I asked her about the previous night. She said they were playing the ‘Bloody Mary’ truth or dare game. ‘It’s just like playing truth or dare (by spinning a bottle), but with a twist’ she said. Basically if you chose truth you’d have to admit that you’re scared of Bloody Mary, otherwise you would be dared to grab the lantern and say ‘Bloody Mary’ three times while staring at yourself in the mirror with the lights off. It is said that if you complete those steps, Bloody Mary will come and take your soul. Another rule was to record yourself with a camera or a phone to prove that you were looking straight in the mirror while doing the so called ritual. I laughed about it, and asked if I could join and they said I could come to her room around midnight and play with them.
After another exhausting museum tour, it was finally time for the game. I changed clothes as fast as I…
Every story comes to a scary part. It may be a twist at the end, or it may be where we finally see the monster that had been stalking the protagonist. The story will scare us, maybe even give us nightmares, but as we grow up and become more rational, we can push those ideas of monsters out of our heads. They are not real, they are not amongst us.
That is the chilling part. They don’t exist. We do. We are the monsters that are depicted in our horrendous stories of death and torture. Humans are the only thing that can do anything wrong.
That is a chilling thought that rationality cannot hide, even as we get older, it only becomes more true. So when you read a scary story about another pale, decrepit monster, tell yourself: “That’s not real.”
When you hear that scratch at the window, tell your self: “That’s just the wind.”
When ever you meet someone that makes you feel uncomfortable, tell yourself: “They are just a person, what can they do?”
That is just it. They are a person, they are the monster. Not all of them, but you will never know until it is too late. That is the scary part.
“The walls have ears”, “Your home shares your fondest memories” are just a couple of rather meaningless things my grandmother used to tell me when I was a little girl. However those words were the first thing that came back to me as I was fighting amnesia. Nobody had a clue why, and quite frankly, everybody was so happy that I was starting to get my memory back that nobody seemed to care about anything else.
I didn’t care either, not at first anyway.
My amnesia was caused by a car accident. I was lucky to survive even though I suffered from temporary amnesia for quite some time. My family had a pretty bad time, but things started to get better. Unlike the first few weeks, when I couldn’t recognize anybody, kept crying myself to sleep and just felt overwhelmed by all the people coming to see me and talking to me about who I was and what happened to me. I’ve went through a long period of denial but as stubborn as I was, the bits and pieces started to come back and I started to remember. I still don’t remember all the minor things I used to do or like, but overall I’m pretty much myself again.
That’s a good thing, right? Well I don’t really know…
I’ve moved back home from the hospital just a couple of days ago, and I don’t know if I’m going crazy or not, but something is weird. No it’s not the fact that I occasionally forget my brother’s name, or forget where my room is or other amnesia related stuff; I was told that they are normal symptoms that linger on for a few months in cases like mine. However that’s not what’s bothering me.
It’s something else. I think I might be losing it, and I’m scared to death. Maybe is some kind of damage my brain suffered from the accident, or maybe it’s from all the stress; I really don’t know what it is, but it freaks me out.
It all started when I was unpacking my stuff the other…
– Date blurred –
I am on my way to the city. After the graduation they told us about a teaching job at an art University in the next city. It’s quite far away and nobody else wanted it so I took it. Unlike my former classmates, I don’t have any reason to stop me from moving to the city so I decided to take it.
I found this cheap little house for rent, about half an hour away from the University, on a remote road quite far away from other houses. I was worried it would be some rat infested old house so I called to check and I was told that it’s cheap because the previous owner, who passed away, didn’t have any documents regarding the property so the city took the house and put it up for rent. I was also assured that the house is in good shape and I won’t have any problems.
Now I’m sitting on my seat in the back of the bus, and I am very bored. This nice old lady gave me an old newspaper she had to keep me occupied. I did the puzzles and then read it for a bit. It was a few weeks old, and apart from a news article it had nothing interesting. The article was about an old man that was found dead in his house, with no personal documents or pictures in the house. After looking through the rest of the pages, I realized the bus was about to stop. It’s time to check out my new city.
– Date blurred –
I just signed the papers for the house. It looks great; the bedroom is pretty big for this little house. There is an empty room upstairs, where I found an old rocking chair and a fireplace. I like the feel of the room so I decided to set up my paintings on its empty walls.
After I finish unpacking I am ready to get some sleep. Tomorrow I’m going to the University to talk about the last details with the principal before starting to work next…
I was so excited. I hadn’t ever really gone camping before, so the fact that one of my friends asked me to go with him was amazing in and of itself. He made plans for five other guys to join us as well. The plan was to leave right after classes on Friday evening and drive up to an old abandoned farmhouse, which, in Kansas, aren’t too uncommon. This one was special, though, or so I was told by Riley, my friend that had invited me. He said not only was the house quite large and well held together after many years of vacancy, but very few people knew about it, so we were almost certain to be unbothered for the weekend. We would stay all day Saturday and come back Sunday morning.
At about 6:00 PM the last guy, Seth I think, finally arrived at the cars. We had a white Suburban from Riley and a small Honda van. Four people rode in the van, while three rode in the Suburban, but the Suburban was also full of all our junk we planned to bring. We left by around 6:30 and drove for nearly an hour before stopping at some burger place to eat a quick supper and shift drivers. After another two hours drive, we arrived at the farmhouse. The farm area was large, empty, and the fence that used to surround it was in shambles. The house, however looked very nice, almost kept.
After unpacking most of our things and laying out blankets on the bed frames still in the house, someone suggested we turn in early so we could go fishing in the morning. Not being a late night person, I was fine with the idea, and after some work, I got everyone else to agree with me. There were only three beds in each of the two rooms, so me, Riley and some other guy I’d never met shared one room, and three other guys shared the other. A guy named…