Show Posts

This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.


Topics - CandleClock

Pages: [1] 2
1
Spooky Stories / NoLove Archive
« on: 07:50 AM, 05/16/20 »
I only made this post because the old Tortellini forum is finally dead, and I don't want some of the stories lost forever. This thread is dedicated to the best writer on both MONOLITH and TT - Nolove. Enjoy!

The Elephant

Me and Angie had been best friends for as long as I can remember. That all changed one day.

Everyone always thought we were lovers, but it really wasn't the case. I guess it only added fuel to the fire when we decided to go travelling to Africa together for four months. She'd spent some time there when she was young, and I wanted to see more of the world, so it made sense.

The first three months went great. We spent every day helping the local kids. The other English guys over there loved us both. The kids thought we were great, Angie especially.

First morning into the fourth month, I woke up to the most horrifying sight I'd ever seen. Dead kids, broken bones, blood everywhere. Trampled to death.

'Angie, I don't believe this.' I said.

'HAROOOOOOOMPPPPHHHH,' said Angie.

As you dedicated a forum to me, I thought I would pay you back by giving you the other stories that you missed. It includes the rare 'return of Angie' story. It's up to Vaughn what is done with them...I guess they might be deleted, or added to the Classics...but I hope you enjoy.

Don't Lie

The last two humans on Earth sat eating by a faintly flickering fire, its crackles and their chewing the only things breaking the silence.

The man gave his young son a smile.

'It's Friday today Danny! You know what that means...'

The boy nodded.

'Chocolate day.'

The man patted his son on the head, and went to fetch the last remaining chocolate bar.

'Danny!'

'Yes Dad?'

'Did you eat that chocolate? It's gone!'

The father stormed into view of his son, who looked terrified.

'N-no! I swear!'

'You had better not be lying to me!'

'I'm not!'

'I'm serious, Danny! It's just us! Bad things will happen if we can't trust each other!'

'I promise!'

The man looked at his son, and believed him.

'OK...OK, I'm sorry, Dan. Look, I'm going to look for some more supplies. I'll be back in an hour or so.'

The young boy nodded. As his father left, he uncomfortably shifted around, and removed a chocolate wrapper from his pocket, and scrambled around to bury it in the ground. Panic over.

Then, Danny heard the most terrifying sound he had ever heard.

'I thought your father told you not to tell lies?'



BananaCorn Goes To Jail

They led the no-good tryhard towards his cell.

'Please!' he whimpered. 'Give me one more chance!'

The jury looked at him with pity. But it was for the best.

The guard led Bananacorn down a staircase, his face stony; a direct contrast with Bananacorn's sweating features. Finally, they reached the cell.

'We don't have no specific cells for tryhards here, so you'll be sharing with a murderer,' said the guard.

'W-what?!'

'Meet your new cellmate!'

Bananacorn stared at the other occupant in the cell with a look of absolute horror.

'HAROOOOOOMPH!' said Angie.


The Stupidest Town In The World

Year 2014.

The idiots were slobbering around as usual, playing with each other beautifully, some people would think it was adorable; others thought it was just plain retarded.

'Sarah, Sarah, let's play with this toy!' said the man happily.

'No, no!' said Sarah. 'That toy is dangerous!!'

'No it's not! Look, watch!'

'No! Let me do it!' Sarah laughed.

She grabbed it from him, and pressed the button with a grin on her face.

In Moscow, 5000 miles away, the first bomb fell.


The Man In Red...aka The Devil

Here is a riddle which may creep you out a bit.

The Man in Red ate his dinner...with a fork.

The Man in Red killed a man.

The Man in Red made a deal with a bad human.

The Man in Red is a fallen angel.

The Man in Red is God's enemy.

The Man in Red is inside each and every one of us.

Can you guess who I'm referring to?


The Disco Of Death

'Woooo!' screamed Rosie. She was having fun, this had been the most fun disco she had been to in a long time.

'Wahhhh!' shouted Henry. He was also having fun.

The DJ looked down at Rosie and Henry having fun and dancing with jealousy. He had a girlfriend once. He shrugged his shoulders, and lined up the next song.

'OK everyone, let's get dancing for this one! And it's time to get close with your nearest and dearest, this is a slow one! Let's dim the lights...'

The lights went so dim that Rosie and Henry could hardly see each other.

The slow music kept playing, and the room went darker and darker.

'Wahhhh!'

Rosie and Henry never had fun again.

The music continued to play, as the DJ slinked out of the venue without a trace. The bloody knife in his hand glistened in the moonlight.


The Party Near An Electric Chair

This is based on a dream I had. I am well aware that the story makes no sense, but I wanted to share it with you guys in it's purest format. I couldnt remember the name of the main guy in the dream so I made one up.

Everyone had turned up to Hoffham MacRedpoor's 19th birthday. Jimmy was there, Sally was late, but that didn't matter, Julie and Gerald had both arrived on time.

'Thanks for all coming. As you know, my Dad works for the prisons and he got me something pretty cool for my birthday!' said Hoffham to his friends.

'What is it?' asked Julie.

'An electric chair!'

'Wow!' said Jimmy.

Hoffham got all of his friends to sit on the chair.

'Here, I'll take a picture of you all!' said Hoffham.

They all smiled. For the last time. Hoffham dropped the camera, and quickly pulled a lever, electrocuting his friends. They died instantly.

'That'll teach you guys to bully me at school.'

There was a knock at the door. It was Sally. He let her in, but she had an odd look on her face.

'What's wrong Sally?' Hoffham asked.

'This is for killing my friends,' she said, and she shot him dead.

Sally clambered into the chair alongside her friends, and pulled the lever.


The Slug Who Lost His Mind

The slug squished along the ground, slowly, pointlessly.

He eyed the snail across the street jealously. If only he'd had a shell like that to protect him, when the demons had came a-knocking.

Unfortunately, he didn't have a shell. And now he was haunted day by day. The ghost of his stupid slug mother, too dumb to get a job in the slime industry. His dead slug dad, killed by some kid with salt.

But the most haunting image was the one of his own corpse. It seemed oddly unsluglike.

Meanwhile in reality, the child's fever was not getting any better. He would not wake up as his concerned parents looked on. His mother wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, forming a glistening trail, not unlike that of one of a slug.


In The Name Of The Father

The man closed his eyes as the pain became more intense. It would be OK, he told himself.

The pain intensified. It felt like someone had placed needles in a furnace and pushed them into his arms and hands. It would all be OK, he knew the truth.

Finally, he gave in. They checked his body.

'Yes, he's dead.'

'OK, good work everyone. Who do we have next from the mental institute?'

The men went back to checking their lists, for the next person who would hang from the giant cross behind them.



The Ghost Who Came To Life

The ghost floated along, floating along happily.

He floated even more happily, until suddenly, he felt very sad.

'I used to be alive.'

Suddenly, a genie appeared.

'I will give you one wish, ghost.'

'Only one?' he replied. 'Don't genies usually grant three wishes?'

'Yes, but you are dead. You only get one.'

'OK, fine.'

The ghost thought long and hard for a second.

'I want to come back to life, and be immortal.'

'Your wish is my command.'

The genie brought the ghost back to life, and then disappeared.

The ghost was now human again. In a coffin underground. Trapped.


The Dead Rapper

Yo,

Yo, yo, yo.

Naw, I ain't alive.
But I'm still rappin'
Take a seat
And I'll you what's happenin'

Guy comes up,
Pulls a gun
Aimed it at my head
It wasn't fun

Yo,

Yo, yo, yo.

Some called me
A rapping masta
Now I'm writin'
Creepypasta
From beyond the grave
While you are at a rave

Guess what? The twist is coming at you like an attack
I'm still alive- and my name's 2pac.
Suffocating Relationship
My first pasta...be kind :3:

I've been lying here for a few days now. She broke up with me, and I can't move.

We'd been arguing for a while. My paranoia had always been a problem, and when I saw her getting out of a guy's car the other day, it all blew up. She was screaming, saying I was suffocating her by being so needy, I wasn't the person she thought I was; all of the usual things. But it seemed different this time. She seemed like she hated me.

It turned out it was just an old schoolfriend of hers that she was meeting to talk about old times, but my accusations were the final straw for her. She packed a few of her things, called her sister to tell her she was coming over, and left without another word.

The next few days were a bit of a blur. I'm lying here, wondering whether I'll ever be able to go and get that drink of water that I so desperately want.

Wondering whether she'll come back and dig me up.

Monkey Infinity

You may have heard the old theory about 'an infinite number of monkeys with an infinite number of typewriters could type the complete works of Shakespeare'.

Well, here's the part you probably haven't heard. Someone actually tried to do this.

Danish scientist Lars Hansen took this theory very seriously- as luck would have it, his job was Monkey Cloner at the University of Copenhagen. He had spent the last few days just cloning monkeys non-stop, knowing that Monkey Infinity would soon be arriving.

'This one, it's this one!' he yelled excitedly to his assistant Noah.

'Oh my God,' said Noah, his beautiful eyes widening.

There it was, in front of them, monkey number infinity.

Then the monkeys became self-aware, and realised there were more of them than the humans. They decided that they would each kill one human, travelling around the globe, led by Monkey Infinity.

Monkey Infinity gestured towards Monkey #289994 and #9011.

'Kill,' Monkey Infinity said. And then Lars (human #289994) and Noah (human #9011) were both dead.

Monkey Infinity laughed with satisfaction, knowing that he would never have to kill anyone himself, as there was no Human Infinity.

So just remember...there's a monkey out there, with your number on it.

Red/White/Black

Red. The colour of blood; flowing around your body day after day. Until that final day.

White. The light blinds you for a few seconds as you wake up, tied to an old chair. You hear the faintest laugh, and then footsteps.

Black.

Mentally Retarded Child

The kid was retarded; there was no getting past that.

Dribble running down his face- gross. His tongue lolled around his face at weird angles. His beautiful green eyes ravaged by years of self-doubt.

Lo!

Realisation.

He just became self-aware.

And he's left the room now. Creeping...creeping towards those who made fun of him in the past. Creeping closer...and closer...and closer.

He licks the door before he enters. The bully lay there, blissfully unaware. And he stayed unaware forever more, as the hammer crushed his skull within a milisecond.

The retarded child left without a word.

Job Interview

After getting poor reviews for my first pasta, I've taken my time over this one, making sure that hints are dropped throughout for the twist ending etc. Hope this one is more satisfactory.

It had been a long few months. I was made redundant at the end of Easter, and was finally starting to get interviews again.

But this one...this one was different.

My suspicions were first aroused by the name-tag on the guy who was interviewing me.

'A. Lien'

At first I just thought it was a Chinese guy, but no, he was white.

Then they started asking me whether I would be prepared to 'relocate'. When I said 'what, to a different country?' they just laughed.

But it didn't sound like a human laugh.

It sounded alien.

But anyway, I got the job. They didn't tell me where or when I'd be starting. One night I was whisked away in the back of a van. Call me paranoid, but I could have sworn that the van didn't just travel along the road- it travelled upwards. Almost like some kind of spacecraft.

So I started work. The weird thing was, I don't remember anything about the work I was doing. It was almost like my mind was being wiped after every day, but some kind of technology not known to Earth.

The truth hit me one day, when I asked my employers 'Where on Earth am I?', emphasising the word 'Earth'.

They just laughed.

But it didn't sound like a human laugh.

If God became President, he would win every war.

If God became President, no-one would worry any more.

If God became President, the devil would be his vice-president.

What if the vice-president (the devil) convinced the President (God) to kill himself?

Then the Devil would be President.

Imagine if the Devil made God II his Vice President?

Imagine if God II managed to get the Devil to change his ways and resign, then God II would become President.

God II appoints the Devil II as his vice-president.

The cycle continues. Eventually- it all ends.

The Greatest Twist of Them All
Los Angeles, 1975.

I wasn't alive then, and I ain't never been to Los Angeles. But this is what I imagine it was like.

The rain was incessant; the tighter I tried to pull my coat around me, the more seemed to get through. The flashing neon was a welcome distraction from the pain currently rippling through my body.

They had all come to see me off- the guy who got buried alive, the guy who got abducted by aliens, angie the elephant, the goddamn emo, the dead rapper, the unhappy car, the thinker, the ugly wizard; all these legendary characters had turned out to see their creator's final stand.

And they were all smiling. Not smiles of satisfaction, but warm smiles. Comforting smiles. Angie the elephant brushed her trunk gently over his body.

He returned their smiles weakly, and felt his eyes begging to be closed.

Nothing.

The final twist is that his death was from natural causes.

RIP NoLove.

The Devil wagged his tail.

The Devil barked loudly.

The Devil growled beautifully.

The Devil chased a cat.

Suddenly, the dog became self-aware and realised he was the Devil.

And the cat that he was chasing was God.

The world imploded.

In future when you see a dog, try not to get creeped out.

The rabbit lay beautifully in the grass with a smile on his face.

Then it stopped smiling. And started to eat its own skin.

Crunch. Skin ripped off.

Squelch. Skin ripped off.

Only it wasn't a rabbit, it was your insane brother who just turned up at your house after 38 years.

And he wasn't eating his skin...

He was eating yours.

Goddamn Punk

'Hey! Hey you, you goddamn punk!'

The goddamn punk turned around.

'What do you want from me?'

'All your cash, phone, everything. Turn out your pockets.'

The goddamn punk sighed. Would these muggers never learn?

He reached into his pockets, and pulled out a gun.

'Woah! Hey...woah, man. Jesus Christ.'

The mugger stepped back in shock at the sight of the weapon.

'I'm not a goddamn punk. I'm a goddamn emo.'

The goddamn punk shot himself in the head.

The mugger tenatively kicked his body over, and stole his money, phone, and after a second's thought, took the gun.

War of Gods

The God turned to the other God.

'I am the true God,' he said.

'No,' replied the second God. 'I am the true God.'

The two fought, kicking each other beautifully, and scratching each other's God faces, and pulling each other's God beards.

They fought, and fought, and fought.

Then, a third figure entered the fray. It was The Devil.

'I AM THE TRUE GOD,' he whispered gently.

The other two Gods were too tired to put up a fight. With one stab of his fork, The Devil killed both Gods.

'There can only be one God,' breathed The Devil, 'Of nothingness.'

Then the world ended.

The Thinker

I think I'll do it again today.

I think I'll make that train crash.

I think I'll make that plane crash.

I think I'll make that bus crash.

I think I'll make that car crash.

I am God, after all.

I think.

The Hungarian Orangutan and the French Wife

The Hungarian Orangutan made his bed in the morning.

His French wife messed it up while he went to work.

The Hungarian Orangutan put his dinner in the oven.

His French wife burnt it on purpose.

The Hungarian Orangutan went to bed to try to sleep.

His French wife played loud music to keep him awake.

They were certainly a couple who had opposite views on things.

The French wife wanted to live...

*

Meanwhile in France, the police knocked on the door of a mother and father to deliver some very bad news.

'What is it, officers?'

'Your daughter has been murdered by an orangutan.'

'Oh no.' they said.

The officers left. They took off their disguises to reveal that they were in fact the Hungarian Orangutan and the French wife. They kissed on the lips.

And then there was light.

One leg came out.

One fish dead.

The second leg came out.

Two fish dead.

The third leg came out.

Three fish dead.

The fourth leg came out.

Four fish dead.

The fifth leg came out.

Five fish dead.

The sixth leg came out.

Six fish dead.

The seventh leg came out.

Seven fish dead.

The eighth leg came out.

Eight fish dead.

The ninth leg came out.

Death. Death, death, death.

Life.

The wizard's eye opened slowly, as he tried to take in his surroundings, which were fuzzily beginning to move into focus.

'I thought you weren't going to make it,' smirked the figure across the room.

'You thought wrong,' said the wizard.

The figure opposite stepped closer. His face was pale white, and he had beautiful blue eyes. He was a marked contrast to the wizard on the ground.

The wizard's face was ashen, his features were shrunken, and he had a twisted scar across his entire face.

'For all your ugliness, your powers as a wizard are second to none.'

'And for all of your nice features, you still haven't managed to become a wizard.'

The figure seemed to drink these words in, like an athlete gulping down water after a particularly tough race.

'Oh, haven't I?'

The figure sank to his knees, twisting his arms around, whispering manic incantations, and sparks began to fly around him. The wizard looked on in shock, and then pain began to course through his body.

Death.

The figure laughed with pleasure. Then, the smallest trace of a scar began to form across his face.

He walked through the bar, shaking each man by the hand.

He walked down the road, shaking each woman and child by the hand.

He entered the old people's home, shaking each old person by the hand.

He entered the children's hospital, shaking each child by the hand.

He goes home at the end of the day; smiling, satisfied with his day's work.

They'll all see him again one day. And they'll remember when they shook this hand.

Left turn.

Right turn.

Full speed ahead.

He drank too much tonight, there's no way he's totally in control of me. That fifth beer pushed him over the edge. Not drunk enough to be all over the place, but he's not in control. Maybe if he was happier, he wouldn't drink so much.

Left turn.

He glanced at his phone, and saw the time. Better get home quickly, she'll be wondering where he is.

Right turn.

He didn't see the child step out in front of him.

Full speed ahead.

I guess they'll sell me to someone else whilst he's in prison. I hope I don't make them unhappy too.

He strained...every muscle in his body seemed like it was fighting its own world war.

Reach.

Reach.

Relax.

He fell back again, unable to achieve his goal. What would it take for him to get there?!

One last push.

Reach.

Strain.

Reach!

Yes!

He did it. He reached out, and pressed.

The submit button that is. The twist is that the main character was me, making his 100th post.

The creepypasta became self-aware.

The creepypasta got on the bus.

The creepypasta got a job.

The creepypasta found a wife.

The creepypasta had creepypasta kids.

The creepypasta got old.

The creepypasta died.

It always ends the same.

BananaCorn wrote:You do realise that this entire NoLove escapade started because he couldn't take criticism for his serious stories, so he posts stupid shit to make us rage.
This is the third and final part of the 'Los Angeles Trilogy' by NoLove. I hope you've enjoyed it. I will be back with some new material very soon. I also hope to go to Los Angeles someday.

Los Angeles, 1977.

They say that birth is followed by life, which is followed by death.

But the question on NoLove's lips was: 'what follows resurrection?'

The answer came to him in a flash.

More death.

NoLove loaded up his gun, and began firing randomly. Truly, randomly.

The first shot hit a building.

The second shot hit a cow. It survived.

The third shot hit himself, full in the face.

He died. And then the sequence from Part Two happened all over again, and he was back to life.

'Looks like I'm gonna be around forever,' said NoLove, in arguably one of the most incredible twists of all-time.

The Devil sat happily in a chair.

He sat in silence, and then he sat some more. Then he decided to sell his own soul...to himself.

'How much do you want for your soul?' he asked himself.

'One thousand dollars,' he replied.

Out of nowhere came one thousand dollars. The devil had sold his soul to himself.

THIRTY EIGHT YEARS LATER

The mentally ill child sat happily in a chair.

He sat in silence, and then he sat some more. Then he decided to sell his tricycle to a kid he knew.

'How much do you want for your tricycle?' the kid asked him.

'One thousand dollars,' the mentally ill child replied.

Out of nowhere came one thousand dollars.

The mentally ill child took the money, and thought to himself.

'I'm sure I remember this happening before.'

The new child on the tricycle had a red glint in his eye, as he pedaled away.

2
Troll Stories / The Head from the Threshold
« on: 02:12 PM, 07/19/17 »
A translation of this story: https://mrakopedia.org/wiki/%D0%93%D0%BE%D0%BB%D0%BE%D0%B2%D0%B0,_%D1%82%D0%BE%D1%80%D1%87%D0%B0%D1%89%D0%B0%D1%8F_%D0%B8%D0%B7_%D0%BF%D0%BE%D1%80%D0%BE%D0%B3%D0%B0

I hope it's not against the rules.

This is a true story which happened to me when I was six.

I was little then and I was afraid of the dark. We used to live in a flat where something weird would happen every night... Strange sounds, rustling... Going to sleep, I would cover my head with a blanket and I would sleep the whole night this way. I believed that if I covered my head, I wouldn't see the ghosts (lol).

One night I woke up... For some reason, I looked back. There was a doorway behind me. Without leaving my bed, I looked at the door and I was terrified! Someone's head was intently looking at me through the door. The head was green and its face was terrifying. I couldn't move for about two seconds, then I screamed waking up my mom who slept in the room next to mine.

"What's the matter, Vitalik?" she said when she came in.
"Nothing," I said. Then I got up, bent my mom down and fucked her in the ass.

3
General Discussion / What is Creepypasta?
« on: 11:17 PM, 11/ 7/16 »
I know this is probably the most stupid question you can ask on a board like this, and yet there are some things I' d like to know. What does makes a story a creepypasta in your mind? To give more directions, I'll propose some more questions.

1. Lenghth. Should creepypasta be short (think of Red and White or The Bad Dream) or it may get as long as things like Penpal, King Beau or Red Sky at Night?

2. Creepypasta and other genres of horror: what makes it different form mainstream stories, as well as from nosleep and other things like that?

3. The realism: how important it is? Should a story pretend to be an account of real life events? Can a purely escapist storyline remain creepy?

4. The characters: how important are stock characters (i.e. the Holders, Slender Man) for the creepypasta lore? Is (or should be) there any sort of "canon" surrounding these characters?

That's it for now.

4
Story Critique / How I Was Guarding An Office
« on: 12:08 AM, 09/13/16 »
Another translation of a Russian creepypasta. The original is here: http://mrakopedia.org/wiki/%D0%9A%D0%B0%D0%BA_%D1%8F_%D1%81%D1%82%D0%BE%D1%80%D0%BE%D0%B6%D0%B8%D0%BB_%D0%BE%D1%84%D0%B8%D1%81


I’ve never told anyone this story, and I don't think I ever will (unless, of course, I get found out). I used to work as a night watchman in an office building in Russia. I didn’t have much to do, just to stop anyone from breaking in (I am skinny as fuck, but if someone could break through that tough iron door, even a SWAT team wouldn’t stop them, so I was there just as a formality), to let my bosses in and to check if the ceiling was leaking – sometimes a pipe on the second story would burst. Also, I had to clean the windows once a week. Basically, my work was pretty skate. There were also computers with games like Heroes of Might and Magic III – and I didn’t need anything more. I spent every Saturday night in that office. Things were quiet, as only three people had keys – me, a director and some manager. One Saturday night I was playing on the computer when something rustled behind the door. Just once.

I got up and looked through the peephole, but nobody was there. I thought it was someone just passing by and got back to the game, but then something scratched at the door, and I heard an indistinct male voice. I thought it was the director, so I put the key in, turned it once and then looked through the peephole again. I said, “Is that you?”, but nobody answered. I turned back the key, and immediately I heard a voice from beyond the door. This time it sounded like a woman, but I still couldn’t understand a thing. It seemed like it was saying something, but not a single syllable made any sense. I swore at them and threatened to call the police (I was bluffing – we had no phones in the office, and the whole thing happened before the age of cell phones). A moment later, the female voice shut up, and I heard a quiet knock in the window. I opened the blinds, and I was stunned. No, I was paralyzed with fear.

My legs buckled, and I sat on the floor. A man (I want to believe it was a man) was hanging on the bars. Everything about him was completely unnatural. It looked like something that had only seen humans in the movies before had made a human suit and put it on. I couldn’t even approximately guess at that thing’s gender. Once it saw me, it started to speak – first, with the same female voice, then it started to alternate with the male one and then it seemed like the sound was coming from different sources, interrupted by some scraping and rustling. Fuck, even its facial expression was absolutely inhuman – it was moving its facial muscles in all possible directions. The creature was pressing its hands and legs at the glass while somehow climbing up at the same time. Maybe it was squeezing the rods with its knees and pushing itself up, I don’t know. Back then, I thought it was flying. I could see the thing very well, and it hung for a pretty long time, perhaps for a minute. All that time I couldn’t do anything – I just sat on my ass and stared at the creature.

About a minute later it finally ended – the whole cacophony died down, the thing turned back abruptly (I swear its head turned all the way around) and froze for a few seconds, staring at something. Then it suddenly jumped down and ran off while screaming something in a new, high-pitched voice. Since I was sitting on the floor, I couldn’t see where it went. All I could do was close the blinds and crawl into the office where I couldn’t see the door or the windows. I sat there and cried like a baby – it had been eight years since the last time I’d cried. Then I stopped and started to shudder all over. I sat on the floor till six in the morning, when my coworker, Artyom, came to replace me. I looked at him through the peephole for about two minutes asking him either to step back or to say something before I opened the door. Finally, I let him in, and although he slapped me on the back of my head, I just laughed hysterically (until I started to cry again). Anyway, when I came home, my parents had no idea what had happened to me – I was pale, I had circles under my eyes, and when I weighed myself, I found out that I had lost fifteen pounds that night. Since then I often have trouble falling asleep at night, and I get nightmares. I never told my friends about it, since they would only laugh at me. I decided to post this here, because even though you won’t believe me anyway – at least, I wouldn’t believe it myself - I really wanted to share my story. Well, that’s all for now, I’m going to try to go to sleep.

Why didn’t I go insane after that night? Thinking logically, I can say that if that thing had wanted to get me, I wouldn’t have been posting in this thread. It seems like that thing saw me only by chance, but then it got distracted by something else and forgot about me. At least, I want to think so.

5
Spooky Stories / Algorithm by Josef K
« on: 11:58 AM, 08/30/16 »
Sometime during the third consecutive night spent huddled over the toilet, insides heaving and shuddering as I vomit forth seemingly everything I’d ever eaten, I realize what’s happening: He’s trying to poison me. It’s all so elegant, so perfect, and so clear, that I almost laugh, but another barrage of retching forces me into silence

The next morning I throw everything in the kitchen away, wrapping it three times in black plastic and burying it deep in the apartments communal trash cans, to prevent an unfortunate transient from crossfire of His wrath. I am out the door of the complex and halfway to the corner store when I realize: He knows, must know, where I would shop.

I pick a direction and walk, enjoying the chill winter air that soothes the ragged shreds of my inside. I turn at random intervals, following an improbable path out of my familiar neighborhood, until I find a small shop with an unfamiliar name. Once inside, I hurriedly fill a small plastic basket; brands that I never have eaten, strange tins of ethnic ingredients I can’t recognize, foods that I’d never thought of buying. Soy milk. Tofu. I can feel my stomach reborn in anticipation of an untainted meal.

I prepare the meal in a fog of nervous anticipation, trying to focus on savoring the aromas and the grease spitting sounds of the frying pan. It tastes clean, but then, so has every other meal before this. I try to tell myself that the mounting pain inside me is simple fear and anxiety, but before the stroke of midnight, I am again crouched in the dingy bathroom, surrendering the days work into the porcelain mouth of the sewer.

The next day, I pack up the remaining food and dispose of it with the same care. I eat out that day, layering debt onto the last of my credit cards at restaurants on the opposite side of town.

He is more clever than I could ever imagined, and I am awash in despair as I spend another sleepless night gagging and sobbing on the tile floor. I imagine the Algorithm, the perfect predictive models at His disposal, brilliantly charting my every move across the city; every time I thought I’d outwitted Him, I was willingly walking into his web.

I buy a candy bar from a vending machine in a theater, and hold it close like a talisman. When I get home, I fill the bath a few inches deep with rust colored water, and hold the little plastic wrapped bundle beneath the water and squeeze. I know that I will see it, but it still breaks my heart when I do. A thin almost invisible stream of bubbles picks out the point where a foreign object has pierced the protective layer. Through the haze of piercing hunger, I convince myself to try, just one bite, and to take the chances. It’s a gamble that I do not win.

In the small hours of the morning as I press my fists into my empty protesting belly, I imagine the legion of His followers sliding silently through the restaurants and produce aisles of my life, slipping hypodermic needles into carefully selected packages of food. They are ruining and corrupting at His whim, surgical and efficient, before vanishing into the throng of the city at my approach. They will always be one step ahead of me, until I learn to think in new ways, to chart new cognitive pathways, and turn the game back upon Him. So, I tell myself, this is what I must do.

The first day of my new life, I spend in the small living area of my apartment, organizing my thoughts with clean and sterile efficiency, and conserving what energy I can from my wasting body. Night brings the retching sickness, but all that arises is water… and pills, half digested in the bilious water.

The pills. Of course. Not for the first time, I feel a sharp twinge of respect for crystalline perfection of His plans. I dump the last of my dozen prescriptions into the toilet.

On my third day, I feel a clarity and a sense of purpose that shocks me in it’s intensity, and my will penetrates the starvation malaise. I must win, or I will die. The rashes and sores in my cheeks are deeper, and I can feel the gentle sway of loose teeth in my desiccated mouth when I grind them in thought. He is winning, but not for long. There is still time.

Water, I collect from the roof in a small army of cheap hardware buckets. I know that somewhere in the byzantine plumbing of the aged building, there must one of His infernally clever devices; a tiny pump, squatting like a predator and pulsing it’s vile contents into the water main. I’ll have to give up bathing. A small sacrifice. The rain water will keep me alive for a while longer, but I must find a way to eat.

The answer comes to me in small unconnected puzzle pieces over the next few days. While gently working another loose molar from my bleeding gums, they suddenly snap together, and a warm smothering blanket of epiphany coats my aching frame. The clattering of the tooth into the sink basin is like the ringing of bells.

Late in the evening, I begin another unconscious dérive, drifting through the city on shaking and atrophied legs, knowing full well that He is watching. But this, my beautiful solution, is beyond even His reach.

I choose the house at random, and then, in one final attempt to baffle the Algorithim, turn around and choose another house across the little tree lined street. I sift through the mail; it’s a small sample size, but enough to confirm the most necessary of facts. A single occupant.

The poor man is surprised to have a visitor at all, and his face contorts with fear as force my way inside. I am flooded with guilt and regret as I push him to the floor and strike quickly with the crowbar I pull from the folds of my jacket.

No.

I must steel myself. This is His fault. He has brought us to this, and this poor man is just another of His victims.

I make quick work of the meat, the muscle memories of summers spent hunting in the mountains flaring up with each quick cut. I allow myself a quick bite, a feast to my shrunken and withered stomach. The iron and mineral salt taste floods my head like a vapor and I bawl in relief, like a child. When I have the meat packed tight into my rucksack, I light a single candle on the top floor of the little house, and turn the gas range on high.

I’m not yet home when I hear the low rumble in the distance; the pulsing lights of fire engines highlight the black cloud hanging in the sky.

For the first time in more than a month, I sleep well, my body rapidly healing as pure, untainted nutrients penetrate my cells. I am not yet well, but after a few more meals, I will be ready, once more, to fight Him. I know I can beat him now. I know the Algorithm can only predict the actions of my past self, bound by the laws and morals of the old world.

That world is dead.

I am a free man.

Source: http://www.creepypasta.com/the-algorithm/

6
Story Critique / Rain
« on: 03:01 PM, 07/31/16 »
Once again some old stuff.


Sounds of thunder reached me from somewhere. The rain was getting stronger, and its streams were hitting my window. I turned on my TV in hope that it would help me to get rid of boredom and depressing mood. However, I didn’t find anything interesting, and I tiredly threw my head back on the back of my chair.

For some time I listened to the sounds of the rain, and I didn’t notice myself falling asleep. At some point I looked into the window, and something made me feel uncomfortable. I thought that someone watched me through the thickness of the rain. This thought was ridiculous, because I live on the third floor, so I turned back to my slumber.

Another lightning flashed, followed by thunder. I opened my eyes and saw that the window was opened. Raindrops were getting into the room, and I don’t why, but I had a feeling that something else had penetrated along with them. Maybe it happened only because of the wind that made me feel some movement inside the room. I stood up to close the window, and as I approached the window sill, I saw wet footprints on the floor.

How could this be possible? This thought tortured me along with the growing fear. Someone invaded my home, and it was clearly not a human being. I immediately grabbed the most threatening item I could find in my room. It was a hammer which I took from a toolbox.

Now I was armed, but I still had no idea what was happening. The wet footprints let into a bathroom, where I heard several weird noises from. I walked toward the bathroom firmly holding my hammer’s handle. Carefully, I turned on the lights and opened the door.

There was nobody inside, at least, so it seemed to me. For some time, I stood still, not knowing what to do. I even swung twice with the hammer trying to hit a possible enemy. Nevertheless, this temporary confusion was enough for a rational man inside to defeat the prehistoric instincts. I decided that the noise could be made by water dripping from a tap, and that I’d left those wet footprints myself then I’d come home.

I was about to calm down, but then I remembered that I hadn’t walked in wet shoes through my room, and that the footprints clearly belonged to a barefooted person. Who the hell that was? An invisible flying yeti? That was bullshit. I turned the lights off and closed the bathroom door.

Then I got back into the room, I tried to watch the TV again untill I heard the same noise again. I took the hammer again and walked to the bathroom. This time I forgot to turn on the lights. I opened the door to see a pair of red eyes staring at me from the darkness.

Seized by the panic, I shut the door and rushed out of my apartment. I went to a friend of mine and told him that there was some accident in my house, and I needed some place to spend a night in human conditions. Even there, I slept restlessly, I could prevent myself from thinking about the creature that had invaded my home.

Next day I decided to go home, as I knew that I would have to face the mysterious creature soon or later. I still didn’t dare to go alone, even though I started to think that if the monster didn’t hurt me then he had a chance, it may be actually harmless. Anyway, I took my friend with me having made up some silly excuse.

We walked in carefully, and my friend couldn’t understand what was making me so anxious. Then we opened the door, we saw several shapeless puddles on the floor. The window was widely opened, and there was nothing similar to human footprints. I entered the bathroom, and it became obvious to me that no one was there. Whoever visited my home at that rainy day, he was not here anymore.

Suddenly, my friend uttered a scream of terror and pointed his finger under the sink. I looked down to see a couple of severed human feet fitting the size of yesterday’s wet footprints.

7
Story Critique / Personally Leonid Ilyitch
« on: 08:01 PM, 05/24/16 »
I'm not an author of this, so it technically should be in found creepypasta. However, since I translated this story, and it's the first time I'm translating a story from Russian into English, and not vice verse, so the critique is more than welcome. I'm mostly interested how 'English' it sounds and all stuff like that.

If anyone needs the original, it's here: https://mrakopedia.ru/wiki/%D0%9B%D0%B8%D1%87%D0%BD%D0%BE_%D0%9B%D0%B5%D0%BE%D0%BD%D0%B8%D0%B4_%D0%98%D0%BB%D1%8C%D0%B8%D1%87



The early 80’s. A military outpost in a small northern town surrounded by endless snow-covered flatlands. In the summer, the white nights would start, the snow would thaw, and the flatland would turn into a mossy slough where you couldn’t make a step without a pair of rubber boots. Even tractors could get stuck in it so hard that you had to use two other tractors to get them out – I saw that happen myself.  Mosquitoes flew in swarms so thick that they literally covered the sun. I remember that as I went outside in the first summer days, I itched like crazy, and my skin looked like I had eczema or something worse. However, I would quickly get used to that and I’d only lazily wave my hand seeing another little bastard trying to bite me.

But that was the summer, and the thing I want to tell you about happened in the winter, when everything turned into a lifeless white wasteland. Thanks to Wikipedia, I can even tell the precise day – 15 November 1982. I was 5 years old back then. My family lived in a ramshackle barrack on the edge of the outpost. There was no district heating, and we heated our home with black coal its large heap sitting near the house. My father spent the whole days at the service, and my mother worked as a teacher in a local school, so six days a week my parents would leave me home alone for the whole morning. During the winter? I wasn’t allowed to go outside on my own – they were afraid that I’d  go away to tundra (it happened to the local kids sometimes) or that predators would turn up nearby (it also happened). As my choirs I had to close the chimney once the coals burned out to keep the heat in the house and to get the fresh warm bread from the bakery delivered to the servicemen’s families and left in small boxes near the houses. I was a calm kid who never sought troubles on his ass, so my parents were not afraid to leave me alone.

That day there was a rough snowstorm. Wind howled in an almost human voice, and snowflakes were covering our windows.  I looked through the clearances as the wind pinned smoke from our chimney to the ground. We often had such a weather in our place, and I felt no fear. I knew that there could be a blackout any moment which would also happen quite often. I was just riding a tricycle that my parents had given me the last New Year, played with my toy soldier and threw a ball at the wall to catch it myself – I had as much fun as I could. My mother left our TV on before leaving, so I wouldn’t be lonely. That day both central channels were broadcasting the most important news – the funeral of Secretary General of CPSU Central Committee Leonid Iliytch Brezhnev. The government announced the mourning, but it didn’t concern the military, and my mother had to take part in a school event dedicated to the elderly secretary’s death, thus I was left alone just like always.

At first, I didn’t understand what was on TV instead of usual morning entertainment shows, and I didn’t care. But the broadcast gradually caught my attention. The whole solemnity filled me with a thought that it was something important, tragic and possibly fatal. By that time I already knew Brezhnev – he was “a grandpa from the TV“, a part of my life as usual, as mom’s borsch at Sunday. As I looked at his huge portraits carried by soldiers in the head of the procession, I thought that the grandpa would start reading something on a paper as he always did. But I actually saw him just lying in the coffin, his eyes closed. It seemed like he was just sleeping, but the gloomy orchestra playing Chopin’s March made me think that something terrible had happened. I didn’t know yet what death is, since no one I knew had died yet. That cold day, sitting before a TV-set with a small screen, I encountered death for the first time.

I remember standing on my knees in front of the TV and cried. I felt sorry for Brezhnev who would never again climb the tribune and read his paper, but I was even more sorry for myself and my parents. I understood through an inconceivable childish intuition what the thing that had happened to Brezhnev concerned everyone, and sooner or later I would also lay senseless and motionless/ People would carry my portraits, and this slow unsettling music would play again. One day the same thing would happen to my parents. I was filled with a razorsharp terror of realization of my own mortality. When they started to put the coffin into a grave, I almost got mad with fear. Why did they do that? First, they praised the man and then they put him in the hole and covered him with dirt. It was beyond my comprehension. I was weeping drying my wet cheeks with my hands and the snowstorm outside was echoing my crying.

I don’t remember how my mother reacted to seeing me crying – perhaps, when she came hope, I had already taken hold of myself. Children often overreact to things, but in the same time they can easily forget them. I think I also forgot my grief for the buried secretary and the primal fear I had felt that snowy day. For some time.

It happened the next year, two months after the funeral. After another day – dad went to the caserne, mom made a pilaf – I went to bed. I quickly fell asleep, but in two hours I woke up in tears. I dreamed about seeing the funeral again, but this time I was on the other side of the screen. I walked along with the procession somewhere in the second line. The orchestra played Chaupin, people were silent and the red walls of Kremlin looked like blood. At first, there was nothing to fear, as it usually happens in the dreams, I didn’t feel like it happened to me. But then they started to put the coffin into the grave, and I suddenly appeared right in front of it. The casket wasn’t closed... and Brezhnev was looking right at me. It was a look not of a man, but of some otherworldly creature, maybe, the death itself. As the coffin was being put deep into the grave, the dead man moved his orbs fixing this terrible look on me. My horror reached the peak, and I woke up screaming and weeping. The lights turned on, my mother ran to me and started to calm me down, and I was still shaking, unable to get a hold of myself after that piercing inhuman sight.

My father didn’t come home. At work, he suddenly felt dizziness, sat down on a nearest box, grabbed at his temples and collapsed on the floor. He had cerebral aneurysm. The scariest nightmare of my childhood became reality – I had to come to the real funeral, to see someone close to me in the coffin and to see him taken to the graveyard people carrying his portrait at the procession.

After my father’s death, me and my mother moved to her native Yekaterinburg. Three years later she got married again. My stepfather drunk a lot, but he wasn’t a bad man, and he didn’t abuse me. However, we didn’t become friends. I went to a normal school, played with boys outside, pulled girls by their pigtails, cheated at the tails – in other words had a vivid school life. I got some friends who were really important to me, and I would fight against anyone for them. One of my best friend was the red-haired Seryoga who lived in two houses from me. We would go to school and back together. He was better in school than me, and often helped me then I couldn’t (or didn’t want) to do the homework. His parents were high-ranking officials, so Seryoga oftentimes had some scarce which he would generously share with me.

In the spring when I was finishing the third grade, the familiar dream repeated again. I’ve seen one more time the walls of Kremlin, the solemn faces of the members of the government (most of them had already kicked the bucket by then), shoulder straps and caps, heard the mournful music. And again, I turned out to be near the former ruler’s casket. I was even closer to him than the previous time. Just like before, Brezhnev raised his old eyelids and stared at me with a look of a creature from the undiscovered country. I woke up again shaking and sweating, but this time with no screams. For the rest of the night I was tossing and turning, but couldn’t fall asleep.

The following day Seryoga got hit by a car on his way to the art school...

So it became a tradition – I would see the childhood nightmare every time on the eve of a tragedy with my friends or relatives. Thanks God, it didn’t happen too often: for all years after Seryoga’s death I’d see that dream only three times. The first time a good friend of man died (he got mugged on the street in the lawless nineties. He tried to stand back for himself, and the thugs shot him in the face.) The second time it was my girlfriend (the infamous plane crash near Irkutsk in 2001), the third time it was my mother. That wasn’t unexpected: she had a cirrhosis and ended up in a hospital, but I’ve seen the dream precisely on the eve of her death. It’s impossible to tell what I felt when I woke up knowing that a tragedy was going to happen soon, but had no idea how, where and to whom of my loved ones. Plus, it seems that their deaths were predestined and inevitable, even if I tried to warn everyone. The creature that stared on me had its own ways, inconceivable for a mere mortal.

But the weirdest thing is that each time I would end up closer and closer to the coffin. The night before my mother’s death I stood right on the edge of the grave, in about 20 centimetres from the hole. I think I know what’s going to happen when I’ll into the grave in my dream.

That was my story. To be honest, I can’t find any sense or moral in it. I can only assume that that snowy day in the far north when I was watching the secretary’s funeral, my childish terror before the inevitability of death somehow made a connection between that memory and a supernatural feeling of Grim Reaper standing at the door. So it happened that for me, a harbinger of the approaching tragedy was “personally Leonid Ilyitch“.

8
Story Critique / Cäzilia
« on: 07:33 PM, 05/ 1/16 »
3/25/1922

Today I had headache. Couldn’t sleep. It’s already spring but it’s still cold in our village. I felt very sleepy in the school, the teacher yelled at me.
Mr. S came today. He yelled at mommy. Don’t know why.

3/26/1922

I don’t know why but I don’t like then my grandpa kisses my mommy. There is something weird about it.
Mr. S came again. He was very angry. Grandma was crying.

3/27/1922

I think today I saw my daddy. I didn’t see him before. Mommy says he died at war. But I saw him then I went from school. It was a man who saw me and quickly went away like he didn’t want to be seen. I know it was him. He looked just like on the photo.

Grandpa says he waits some letter. Don't know what it is about but he always looks in our postbox.

3/28/1922

Kids say bad things to me at school. Something about my grandpa and my mommy. But they didn’t do anything bad to anyone. They both went away today, I looked for little Josef. Grandma disappeared too.
They came back, all three of them. Grandma was crying. Grandpa was angry at her because she wanted to kill herself. Why? I don’t believe it.

3/29/1922

Grandpa said there were footprints near our house. They lead to our farm but they don’t lead back. Grandpa said someone was in our house. I didn’t see anyone. Mommy talked to Mr. S again. He said something to her. I asked mommy what it is but she said it’s a bad word.

3/30/1922

I thing I heard some steps at night. Maria, our maid, said she heard something too. She says there are ghosts in our house. Grandpa does not believe. He yelled at Maria. She went away.
I had headache again. I’m scared.

3/31/1922

New maid came. I still heard some steps. We’re all afraid. Grandpa found a newspaper in our attic. He says there are no such newspapers in our village. He says somebody is at our house. Mommy asked if we have to call the police but grandpa said: no. He says he won’t ask the police anything after they did to him.

(later)

What happened? It hurts so much. Can’t sleep... blood everywhere. Mommy is crying in her room. Why?

WHY THERE IS STRAW IN MY HEAD?

9
Spooky Stories / Stranger on a Train by Caliban
« on: 11:23 AM, 04/27/16 »
My name is Andrew Erics. I lived, once, in a city called New York. My mother is Terrie Erics. She's in the phone book. If you know the city, and you read this, find her. Don't show her this, but tell her I love her, and that I'm trying to come home. Please.

It all started when I decided, around the time that I turned twenty-five, that it was time for me to give up taking my backpack in to work. It would make me look more mature, I thought, if I weren't lugging around a book bag everywhere like a high school student. Of course this meant that I had to give up reading in the subway in the mornings and afternoons, since I couldn't quite fit my paperbacks into a pocket. A briefcase would have been out of line, since I was working in a factory, and messenger bags always seemed a little, I don't know, fruity to me. Too purse-like for my liking.

I had an mp3 player, which helped pass the time for a while, but when it broke - it would shut down at the end of every song if I didn't skip to the next track manually - I gave that up too. So every morning, I'd sit in the metro for a half-hour that dragged on endlessly, with nothing at all to do but watch my fellow passengers. I was slightly shy, so I didn't like to be caught at it, so I'd surreptitiously watch people. Interestingly enough, I quickly discovered that I wasn't the only person in the world who was uncomfortable in public. People covered it up in various ways, but I learned to see through them. I divided them up into categories in my head. There were the fidgeters, who couldn't get comfortable, constantly moving their hands, shifting their weight, moving their legs closer to the bench, then further. They were the most noticeably nervous types. After them were the fake-sleepers, who'd take their seat and practically close their eyes in the same second. Most of them weren't really sleeping, though. The real sleepers shifted more, came awake suddenly at stops or after loud noises. The fakes just zoned from the second they sat until the moment the train pulled into their stop. Then there were the mp3 player addicts, the occasional laptop people, the people who traveled in groups and talked too loudly. The cellphone junkies were either very popular or just completely unable to shut up for more than two minutes at a time.

Just as people-watching was threatening to get unbearably boring, I found my first incongruity. A middle-aged looking man, brown-haired, average size and weight, and dressed casually. Oddly enough, he seemed almost too normal. He had no remarkable features, no mannerisms, as if he were designed to fade into a crowd. It was that which led me to notice him - I was intentionally trying to see how people acted on the subway, and he didn't act at all. Didn't even react, either. It was like seeing someone sitting in front of the television, watching a documentary about fish. They aren't excited, aren't engaged, but they aren't looking away either. Present, but not accounted for.

He was on the subway in the afternoons. It was more than a month into the people-watching experiment before he caught my eye, because I didn't catch the same subway everyday, and didn't consciously sit in the same car when I did. I saw him for the first time on a Monday, I believe, and for the second time on the Thursday of the same week. He obviously did catch the same train, and sat in the same car - in the same seat, even. OCD much? I thought at the time. Since he'd caught my attention so much the first time, I watched him more avidly the next. He was, frankly, downright unsettling. He didn't do anything at all. He sat there, expressionless, head straight, no matter what happened. A woman with a wailing child entered the car and sat right behind him, and still nothing. He didn't so much as turn his head or frown in annoyance. And that kid was fucking loud, too.

By the time the subway reached my stop, I found myself queasy, and when I exited the car my hands were shaking like I was having a nicotine fit. Something about that man was *wrong*. He was, I thought, some kind of freak. A sociopath, maybe, one of those quiet guys who it turns out has a dozen women's heads in his freezer, the first victim his mother.

I found myself intentionally dawdling after work in the afternoons, stopping to browse in kiosks in the mall near the subway even when I didn't intend on buying anything. For a couple weeks, I avoided catching that subway, and when I found myself at the stop when it was pulling in, I made sure to choose a train-car as far from the one I'd seen him in as possible. Then, one morning, I saw another person who set off the same warning bells in my head. A woman, just as plain-looking, just as out of place in hustle and commotion around her. The moment I recognized her, I realized later, was when my obsession began. My people-watching, which had began as a bit of a hobby to stave off boredom, became something of a religion to me. I couldn't enter a subway or ride a bus without finding myself examining everyone, filling out a mental checklist in my head. Plain clothes of solid colors, no brands? Check. No expressions, no casual glances out the windows or towards other passengers? Check. No bags, purses, or accessories? Check. Check, check, check, we've got another. I started calling them the Strangers.

I didn't see them everyday, even after I started taking the metro more than I needed to, even when I found myself riding buses out of my way in the evenings. But they were there, often enough. Seeing one would set my teeth on edge, make my palms sweaty and my throat feel dry. If you've ever given a speech, you might recognize the feeling. Even though they didn't pay me the slightest bit of attention, I felt like I was on was on display for them. I could see them, plain as day. How could they miss me?

They didn't, though, not in any way that I could tell. And when, eventually, my curiosity overpowered my fear, I decided to follow one. I chose the one that I'd found first, the man in the afternoon subway who always kept the same seat. I got on and took a seat behind him. We rode to the end of the line, and he rose and walked out before I did. Keeping distance between us, I tailed him, but he didn't go far. He took a seat on a nearby bench, as expressionless as always, and I turned a corner and waited, trying to look nonchalant. After a few minutes, the next metro arrived, and I watched him enter it, and saw him take the same seat. I couldn't find the nerve to follow him again.

He hadn't gone anywhere! He just rode the metro to the end of the line, and then what? Rode it back? What possible reason would he, would anyone, have for that? It nagged at me, long after I'd rode a later train back home and tried to get some rest. I couldn't leave it alone, not until I could make some sense of it. I found myself more than confused - I was downright angry now. Why was this uncanny bastard, this almost inhuman person, riding subway trains back and forth, going nowhere? The mind, I once read, recoils from certain things, because the very sight of them is an affront. Spiders set it off in a lot of people, particularly great big ones. They just look wrong to us, alien. That was the effect the Strangers were beginning to have on me. They offended my senses.

I followed him again the next day, and again the day after that. Every day, for at least a week, the two of us made our silent trips together, though only I knew it. By the end of the week, I was following him for hours, until the last train that stopped at near my apartment block that night. We rode from one end of the city to the other, then back again. I wasn't people-watching any longer. I was person-watching, Stranger-watching. I didn't have eyes for anyone else, though peripherally I noticed more than a few confused glances sent my way. Other than that, we two might have been the only two people on the planet, for all I cared.

I lost my job the next week. My manager was kind, and timid, but firm. I wasn't concentrating, I had no focus. Wasn't being anywhere near productive. It was actually quite a speech, I think, but I could barely hear it. All I could think about was my new work, my vigil. What would that man, no, that thing, on the subway get up to when I wasn't there to keep an eye on him? I left work for the last time at noon that day. Normally I'd have started tailing my subject at five-thirty, but I was sure that he'd be waiting for me. I wish, now, that I'd paid more attention to that day. Was it sunny? It was summer, after all. I could have walked around downtown, maybe checked out a few pretty girls. Could have had an ice cappuccino and a smoke at an outdoor cafe and then gone home, put my growing obsession out of my head. Found a new job and taken to reading on trains and buses again.

Instead, I waited. More than one train goes up and down the lines, so I sat in the station for at least an hour until I saw him through a window. I walked into the subway car, and noticed that for the first time my skin wasn't clammy, my hands weren't shaking, my heart wasn't pounding hard. I sat, for the first time, right across from him, directly in his line of sight. Watched for a change in his face. Would he recognize me? If he did, I saw no sign of it, and I was looking hard. We must have made quite a pair, sitting across from one another that afternoon, staring at and into one another. It was hard not to let the building in rage in me contort my face, but with effort I was able to keep as still and as expressionless as him. Inside, I practically screamed at him. React to me, you fucking asshole! See me, damn it. I know you for what you are!

I didn't, though, and my silent demands weren't answered, not the first trip around, or the second, or the third or tenth. We rode far into the night together , and at each terminus we got out together and waited. I sat right beside him on the bench, watching him from the corner of my eye, and still got nothing from him. But two could play that game as well as one.

Finally, we made our last trip together. I had him and knew it. Last trip of the night before the trains stopped running. I'd always let him get away from me at that point, because the end of the line is a long way from my home, and the buses stop running at the same time as the subways. But this time, I'd follow him, finally see what he was when the trains stopped running. I'd get some answers, maybe.

The subway rolled on, and the anticipation grew in me. The car emptied out around us slowly, until it was just we two silent watchers below the city. I fought to keep a manic grin at bay, and the subway train slowed to a crawl, then stopped. The end of the line.

The Stranger didn't move, still didn't react at all. The car stood still, doors open. I could dimly hear the last few stragglers making their way out of the station somewhere behind us, footsteps echoing in the silence. Nothing. The speaker system dinged to let anyone half-asleep know that we'd reached the terminus. Still nothing. And finally, I could hear footsteps again. A conductor or something, popping his head into each car to make sure it was empty before taking the train wherever the hell it goes for the night. I didn't take my eyes from my silent quarry.

I managed to see the conductor from the corner of my eye when he finally reached our car. He looked in, his eyes roamed over us, and a puzzled look came over his face. He blinked a few times, and paused. I waited for him to speak, and the moment stretched out, but then, with a slight shake of the head, he left us. There was a car ahead of ours, and I heard him stop to check that too, and then a few minutes later, the train started up again. We rode for a time, and then looped around and the subway was parked. I could see into and the windows of more trains on either side of us, and through their opposing windows into even more.

And then he smiled at me. It was just a small curl of the lip, that would have gone unnoticed if I hadn't spent the last several hours studying his face. "So," he said, in a rough baritone. "Here we are."

I tried to respond but couldn't right away. My throat had clamped shut. Terror filled me. It felt like the whole underground cavern we were in had just collapsed onto me. I coughed and stammered and finally managed, with a raspy voice, to ask the question that had kept me up at night, drove me halfway to madness, and led me to this place and this moment. "What are you?"

He ignored me. He stood, and the train doors opened. Then, shockingly, he turned to face me. "Coming?" He didn't wait for an answer, but walked out onto the platform. I scrambled to follow. "Come on, damn it!" I shouted. "Talk to me. Who are you? What? Why do you ride the metro all fucking day?" He didn't look back, or slow his step. I couldn't see his face, but it's safe to guess that he didn't react at all, no more than he had to anything else. I stalked after him, still shouting for a time, but eventually gave up. Five words was all I was going to get out of him, I guessed.

We walked along the platform until we came to a junction, then turned. Now we were perpendicular to the trains around us. The path ahead was lit from above, but I couldn't see where it ended. The trains on either side of us went on forever, as far as I could tell. Far too many trains to service one city, I realized. It wouldn't have mattered by then, I figure, but I probably should have paid more attention to that at the time.

I'm not sure how long we walked. I had a watch once, but it broke. I took out my cellphone at one point, but got no reception down there, and all it would show me was "No Signal". The Stranger would stop every now and then, and look at a subway car for a minute or two, but then pass on. It took me a while to figure out why, but eventually I saw that they weren't all the same. Long lines of them would be similar, and then we'd come to a different model. It'd be a little larger or smaller, or have a slightly different shape. The cockpits, or whatever you call the front part where the conductor sits, were superficially different as well. I didn't and I don't know what exactly he was looking for, but eventually he must have found it, because we turned again, and the subway doors opened when my impromptu guide stopped in front of them. We entered, and took our seats.

"Are you willing to speak now?" I asked him. No answer. I sighed with frustration and seriously weighed the pros and cons of punching him right in the face for a time, when suddenly, the lights in the car came on and I heard the engine starting up. "What the fuck?"

He gave me a look that was almost sad. "You're not going to be able to go back."

"What are you talking about? Go back where?" Nothing again. The stonewalling asshole! The train lurched into motion, pushing off in the opposite direction than the one we'd came from. I think. The endless parade of them had thrown off my sense of direction. It rolled for a few minutes, and then began to slow as we approached the stop. His vacant gaze grew sharper, and for the first time I got the sense that he was actually staring at me, rather than just looking in the direction I happened to be in.

"Be still, be silent. Don't catch their attention."

The train stopped, the doors opened, and they began to flood in. I don't know what I noticed first - the weird clothes, the too long arms with hands that almost brushed the floor, the jet-black eyes and angular faces, or the blue-gray hue of their skin. My eyes took in all those stimuli, but for a long second my brain refused to process it, and when it finally did, I was barely able to bite down on the shriek that tried to tear its way from my throat. I thought my heart was going to explode. Hell, I thought I was going to explode. I was like a strummed guitar string, everything in me lurched and throbbed. My sight grew dizzy, which I was thankful for, and I vomited. My mouth was clenched shut, and I forced myself to swallow it, barely managing it. My instincts were screaming his words at me - Be still! Be silent! Don't catch their attention!

That day is a blur. We rode the subway car up and down the line, still and expressionless, for hours, for days perhaps. It seemed much longer than the line I knew, the line I'd followed the Stranger along. The hideous things around us seemed to pay us no undue attention, though we must have stood out fiercely. I was so petrified with fear that when we finally returned to the endless cavern of trains, alone, I burst into tears. I collapsed to the floor and just sobbed for a long time, the Stranger watching impassively.

When I gained control of myself, I looked at him imploringly. "Take me home," I croaked out. "Please."

"I can't," he told me. "Don't know which one of these would lead you back. If any of them do." He stood and walked out onto the platform, and I rose wearily and followed him. He spun around, sharply. "I think you've followed me enough."

The rage I'd felt for him before, that the panic had temporarily buried, rose up in me. "What?" I screamed, rushing forward. I grabbed him by the shoulders and with a burst of insane strength I didn't even know was in me, slammed him up against the side of a metro-car. "You fucking son of a bitch, what the fuck did you do to me!?" I slammed him again, and again. "Take me back!" He bore it all passively, and soon the flare of anger in me guttered out, leaving me hollow. "Please," I begged, "please take me home."

"That's not how it works." He said. "If we stay together, it's more likely that we'll be noticed. Go your own way. Be still and be subtle, and they'll think that you're one of theirs."

"How could you do this to me? Why?"

He gave me another almost-sad look. "I had to. You will too. You get...stuck, sometimes." He brushed my hands off his shoulders, and turned to walk away. I fell to my knees, suddenly out of strength, and watched him leave. At the junction, he turned back to face me. "I'm sorry." And then he was gone.

I stayed there, on the cold tiles, for a very long time. I curled up into a ball and wept for a while. After there weren't any tears left in me, I even managed to get some sleep. When I awoke, the subway train I'd come in was gone - off carrying more blue-gray abominations to wherever blue-gray abominations go. I couldn't handle going back there, anyways.

I tried to find my way back to where I'd started, to find a subway that I recognized, but I wasn't even sure which direction I should have been going in anymore. I walked for an hour, then another. Finally, I found one that might have looked familiar. Or I was desperate enough to imagine that it did. When I stepped up to the door, it opened for me, and I took a seat. It started up, and in spite of being a life-long agnostic, I prayed my heart out. The train slowed to a stop, the doors opened, and for a second I thought I was saved. People! Human beings! I'd be the most devout man in the world!

Then I noticed the eyes. Specifically, the third, large eye in the center of their foreheads. Well fuck you then, God, I thought.

They were easier to take than the last bunch, though, and I was thankful for that. The third eye blinked independently of the other two, though, and that was nauseating. And when one of them smiled, or laughed, or spoke with another, I couldn't help but notice that their teeth were sharp, and misshapen, and yellow-green with filth. But if I was careful and selectively blind, I could pretend for a stretch that I was home. Until one of them entered with a sandwich in hand, and I realized with a start that I was starving and hadn't eaten or drank in what must have been days.

The next terminus I came to, I decided to try and find something to eat or drink. I don't know why I waited, but it seemed important - to ride to the end of the line. I got there, and could barely bring myself to leave. I'd never seen the Stranger leave the underground - I'd never seen him eat or drink either. My stomach would not take no for an answer though. I steeled myself, and tried to keep my face carefully neutral, and made my way out into the station proper. And then I got confused.

I was looking for escalators, or stairs, or something like that, but all I saw was holes in the ground, the walls, and the ceiling. Gaping, irregularly sized holes, like I was in the middle of a beehive. What was I supposed to do? Leap into one? It didn't make any sense to me, not until someone came through one. He floated up through the floor, and then floated by me. He frowned for a second, or at least I think it was probably a frown, but apparently whatever kept them from recognizing me as alien in the subway extended at least this far. It did not, unfortunately, allow me to levitate, which seemed to be the only way out of the subway station beehive thing. Swearing, I made my way back down to the tunnel.

I was angry, lost, starving, and I'd been abandoned to a fate that, if it wasn't worse than hell, was at least twice as stupid and three times as nonsensical. I was not in the best frame of mind, which I feel excuses the mistake. Normally, I take corners with a wide berth, because everyone knows that if you just dart around a corner sharply in a public place, chances are decent that you're going to walk right into someone. As I did. I slammed into someone, a woman, and fell to the ground. Without thinking, I reacted like any New Yorker would - badly. "Jesus fuck, you stupid bitch! Watch where you're going!"

I realized my mistake even before she did. Her eyes grew quizzical and confused, and when she really noticed me, they bulged with horror. She leapt - well, floated quickly - back from me and let out something scream-like. A little more yowly than I was used to, but I got the point. Further down the tunnel, I saw alien, three-eyed heads turning towards us. I thought, suddenly, about all those sharp, filthy teeth, and just like that I was running. The subway train wasn't there, but there was a walkway along the tunnel - for the repairmen, I assume. That's who'd use it where I'm from, anyways. I took it at full-speed, and just kept running until each breath felt like getting stabbed. I stopped, panting, and looked back. The tunnel had curved, so I couldn't see the light any longer, but nobody appeared to be following me. Going back, though, was not an option.

I continued forward in the dark for a long time. Eventually I came to a small opening in the wall, and stopped there for a rest. Hunger, despair, and a full-speed terrified run had all left me absolutely drained. I probably would have wept again, which seemed to be all I was capable of lately, but it just seemed like too much work. I sat against the wall, legs splayed out, and imagined I was beating that bastard Stranger to death with a hammer. It was a relieving image.

A rat was shuffling around nearby in the dark. Every so often, I would kick out a foot to scare it away, but after a time I didn't even bother with that. Rabies or any other disease it might be carrying would be a blessing compared to endless traveling through the subways of strange worlds, lost, destitute, and alone. When it crept near me again, I didn't shoo it off. Even when it reached and pressed against my leg, I couldn't bring myself to care. Not until a train passed by, and the lights of its cars lit up the culvert I was in, and the thing that I had thought was a rat.

It was rat-like, yes, but not as much as it was spider-like. If someone had bred the two of them together, the resulting abomination might have been almost as horrible as the thing nuzzling my leg. I shrieked, flung myself up from the floor, and booted it like a soccer player would, right into the opposite wall. Its back made a sickening crunch, and I watched it twitch out its last before the final car passed and the darkness returned.

And in the darkness, a terrible thought came to me. I wondered if it was edible. I didn't want to, and I gagged just imagining it, but I was hungry, and there was no guarantee that I'd be able to find food in this place, or ever again. Rat-spider was my only option. I held off as long as I could, but in the end, survival trumped squeamishness. I had my lighter, but nothing to light on fire. I picked meat off its carcass and cooked it a little by holding it over the flame, but it didn't help much. Nothing could have. It's meat was foul, more foul than anything you can imagine. I've been that desperate for food since, and eaten many other questionable things, but nothing has ever been as bad as the rat-spider was.

In retrospect, that is when I became a Stranger. Before, I'd struggled to reach that expressionless state the other had maintained. What I'd taken for calm was numbness. A sharp rock thrown in a river will, over time, have its edges rounded off by the water beating over it, and what I'd gone through had done the same. Tearing up and eating a monster in the dark, below an alien world, the last of my edges smoothed. By the time I left the darkness and came back into the tunnel, I was as expressionless and empty as the one who'd led me here had ever been.

That was not the worst of it, though. The worst came later, the first time I got stuck. The Stranger had mentioned it, but in the state I'd been in, I had hardly noticed. One night, at the end of the line, I was asked to leave the train. The world was one of the closer-to-normal ones. The people were almost human, as I recognized it. They were orange, sure, and hunch-backed, but other than that, they were practically normal. After the last world, where the people had been hideously overweight, six-breasted hermaphrodites with no noses, the orange guys were pretty much beautiful to me.

I thought, at first, that the conductor was talking to someone else, but I was the only one in the car. And moreover, I'd understood him. The Oranges certainly hadn't been speaking English all day, but nonetheless, I could understand what he was saying. When I stood, I began to realize why. I couldn't stand up straight. I was hunchbacked, and as I saw in my reflection against the window as I exited, orange. I pieced together the rest from there. Stuck meant that I was trapped in this world, for some reason, and stuck looking like them as well. Which would be handy if I wanted to take the opportunity to leave the subway station - which is possible most times, but requires a lot of care and is quite overwhelming. Alien worlds are a little revolting, I've found. You try to compare them to your own, but the differences are so vast that it just makes you sick.

I left that subway, anyways, because it was clear I wasn't returning to the central hub (what I'd taken to calling the infinite line of subway trains) that night. Or any other night, I soon found out. Whatever had let me go unnoticed wasn't working any longer. I considered, briefly, staying. But this place wasn't home, and could never be. Even if they looked like me, their culture was bound to be different. That was a lesson I'd learned before. Even worlds where the people are absolutely indistinguishable from me are fraught with danger. I was once on a world where the people looked just like me - well, actually they looked Brazilian, but that was more than close enough - and learned the hard way that the gesture that to me means "Hello" meant something gravely insulting. Insulting enough that I'd been beaten half to death while a crowd looked on with approval.

Besides, even if that place had a culture I could fake, I didn't want to stay. I wanted one of two things: to find my way home, or to find the Stranger who'd set me on this path and beat the shit out of him. Nothing else would do.

So I wanted to move on. I wasn't sure, though, if I could do to some poor sucker what had been done to me. Could I really force someone else to wander the eternal underground like me? It turned out, I didn't have to. After a few months one of them did notice me, yes, and begin to follow me for weeks. I very carefully made it seem like I hadn't seen him, just like the Stranger had. But I was torn between the desire to warn him away and the desire to bring him to the end of the line so I could leave his dismal world already.

The last night, he followed me to the end of the line, just as I had once done. He hadn't managed to work up the nerve to sit right across from me, though. And as soon as the train stopped at the terminus he rushed off. I waited, hoping the conductor wouldn't see me and I could continue on, but to no avail. I left the car, and the metro rushed off without me, and I cursed inside. As I walked around the corner towards the ticket booths, the young man who'd been following me attacked. He had a wicked, curved knife, and should have caught me by surprise, but I'd been traveling through hostile alien worlds for several years. My reflexes were sharp.

We struggled, viciously, before I managed to wrestle the knife from him. I don't know how it got in his neck. I don't think I wanted to kill him. I hadn't even been that angry, remembering my own building rage from so long before. Afterwards, as he lay there, bled-out, I got pissed. I kicked him repeatedly, shouting. "You dick! You were supposed!" Kick, kick, "to follow me!" Kick. I fled the scene of the crime, but not for long. I was there bright and early the next day, to catch the first subway of the morning. And that night, when I rode it to the end of the line, I was invisible to the conductor again. I guess you can either kill them or bring them with you if you want to return to the central hub.

I was invisible again, but I was also orange and hunchbacked still. I stayed that way until the next time I became stuck. The next time I killed. That one went much faster. I didn't wait for her to follow me. Once I was recognized as a Stranger, I recognized her as the next one, and I made my choice. I won't bring anyone else into this.

It makes me wonder, though, about the Stranger who inducted me. I wonder what he originally looked like, and whether he knew he could have killed me. I wonder, too, about the others I saw back home, and the rare few I come across since I left. Do they kill them or take them? And whichever one they choose, do they consider it a mercy? I can't bring myself to talk to them, to ask. We're damned either way, and the damned should suffer in solitude.

I've killed fifteen of them now, and I've gotten very good at it. But I've made a decision. I'm done killing - innocents, at least. Before I returned to the central hub, I filled a backpack with as much paper as I could cram into it, and I wrote this story. Over and over again, to be left in as many subway trains as I can. A couple thousand messages in bottles, cast into a sea of steel rails. This is a request, and a warning.

My request, above, was that you find my mother and tell her a lie. It's a white lie, don't worry. Tell my mother that I love her, and that I am trying to come home. It may give her some hope, or a small measure of peace. I wish it were true, too. But here's the thing: I've been thinking of myself as like Odysseus, lost and adrift, looking to return to familiar shores. But I am not lost at sea. I am lost in endless tunnels - the labyrinth. The difference is important, because labyrinths are designed, built. Somebody or something made this impossible place. And they must be held accountable for what they've done to me. They cast me as Theseus, not Odysseus, but I won't play that part any longer, either. The strange rules of this place have turned me from the human I began as into something else, then something else again. They have made me a monster, and so I will be the Minotaur of this labyrinth. And if I can, I will tear it down around me, and destroy those that built it.

My warning is that you should be very wary, in public places, of silent, expressionless men and women. Keep your distance. They may kill you, or they may do worse. If you see them, run far and fast. And even more importantly, I warn you, I beg you: don't ride the train to the end of the line.

Source: http://calibantales.blogspot.com.ee/2009/07/stranger-on-train.html

10
Bad Stories / Wrong Bus
« on: 04:13 AM, 04/ 2/16 »
As a celebration of four years of writing creepypasta, I decided to repost the first thing I wrote on tortellini. Feel free to tear this shit apart.


One evening I was going home after visiting a friend of mine. He lived on the edge of my town and the bus I needed would stop near his house once an hour. So, then I was approaching the bus station and saw a bus standing there, I ran like crazy not paying attention to its number.

As I was not sober enough, it took some time before I understood that I took a wrong bus. It was too late; the bus took me in some unknown to me direction. Then I realized this I went out and crossed the street in hope to wait for another bus that would take me back.

It was already dark. I was waiting for the bus for a long time but then an hour passed and there was no hint on any vehicle on this road. I decided to go find some people who would help to find some other mean to get home.

After some walking, I saw that I got in some deep countryside. There were no homes around; there was nothing expect a completely unbearable forest. At last I found a railroad and decided to find some train station.

I didn’t find a train station but soon I saw a cabin on the edge of the forest. I came closer and knocked at the door. An old man opened the door. I told him that had happened to me and asked how can I get home.

“The next bus will come only in the morning”, told the old man. “You don’t need to wait the whole night outside. Come in”.

I hesitated. “Come in”, repeated the old man. “You have to go inside”.

I entered the cabin. It looked really old inside. The furniture looked like it was made no less than a century ago. Some trophies, such as a deer’s head hung on the wall. There was also a TV-set, one of those who had been showing news about the Caribbean crisis.

However, there were some interesting things in the cabin, such as a computer disc lying on a table. POKEMON was written on it. I wondered if the old man played video games. He answered: “No, it’s my grandson’s. He played”.

As I was hungry, he gave me to eat. I ate fried potatoes and some meat what tasted like a chicken. I wanted to switch on the TV, but the old man said I shouldn’t do that. He didn’t explain me why.

The old man told me about his life. As I found out, he had been working as a medic during the Second World War. Later, he had lived in Russia there he had been taking part in some experiment with sleep. After that he had come as a missionary to some South American country ravaged by something called Muerta Blanca. In the seventies, the old man worked as a puppeteer for some kids show. He told me its name but it didn’t tell me much. He kept an old puppet from that show – a skeleton in a top hat.

Suddenly, we heard a knock at the door. The man grabbed me roughly and dragged to a small room. He closed the door and told me to be quietly. Somehow, I did as he told.

Three younger men came in. They sat at the table and started eat. They talked and laughed so loudly I couldn’t understand a word. I sat quietly all this time. Not that there was any reason to be afraid of those men but I still had some feeling of a menace. Anyway, I would do anything to avoid them learning about my presence.

Then it got quiet. The old man opened the door and told me that I could go out. I went to the kitchen and saw the three men sleeping. They have eaten all the meat leaving only bones on their plates.

I got closer and took a better look on the bones. I’ve never felt so sick before. Without any thought, I ran out of the cabin and ran like hell.

After that I couldn’t make myself eat a slightest piece of meat for no less than a month.

11
Story Critique / Memories
« on: 10:57 PM, 03/20/16 »
So, I didn't write anything for awhile. I'll try a new beginning with this piece.

I remember the time when the world was different. The ocean, one and only, covered the Earth as a mighty sheet of blue green seeming infinite and inexpugnable. The land was pure and virginal its unpenetrable forests being bright with long time gone colors. I remember it, but my memories of that distant era seem to be slipping away. Right now all I can recall clear as a day is my first human.

I wish I could call him a friend. Sadly, that wouldn't be the right word as 'friendship' usually implies some level of consent or, at least, awareness. But he wasn't aware of me. He was hunting, and it was that hunt in a particularly gloomy day that took him in my domain and sealed his fate. I still can hear his footsteps in the grass, the worried look in his eyes, as he watched the skies above him expecting the gathering storm. I knew he was lost, and I knew he was my opportunity. My one chance in a million.

He didn't see, but he felt me. Felt with his primitive animal sense of unknown, yet present danger. He ran away, but he knew he couldn't run too far. He realized that he encountered something that was above him, above his kind. And he did that all men do in such minutes: he fell on his knee, and he prayed. He didn't pray to his gods, he prayed to me, as if he believed in my kind's superiority over his own.

My kind... I haven't met anyone like for that seems like eternity now. I know that I am not unique and never was. Still, whenever I try to pass through the mist surrounding my origin, I fail, and I fail hard. Sometimes I think I really am the only one.

Anyway, he came back to his tribe. No one noticed anything strange about him, not even a small bulge on the back of his neck which was slightly throdding when he was asleep. It's during his slumber when I would gain total control over him. It was the time the two of us had a common language we could talk in - the tongue of his dreams. The chaotic images stocked in his unconscious, I could rearrange them at my will, showing him the things he shouldn't have seen, so waking up he would take me where I had to be. He became my vessel and I his constant passenger or, rather, his captain. And the most wonderful thing was that he never suspected that his thoughts could be not his own. The man was very primitive back then.

There was a thing I didn't see though. His hair was getting gray, and his body weakened. I knew that I needed I new one, a new body, a new host, if you will. Yet, I worried about leaving him, since I didn't know how would his mind work without me. My worst fears realized; he went insane, and his own tribe took his life. They were afraid of him, although he was the last thing they should have been afraid of.

Dreams. Sweet little dreams. While the bodies gave me food, dreams fed me spiritually. When I forget the faces, I try to remember dreams. I think I caught this disease, and I started to dream myself. I saw dreams everywhere on the land and even when buried in the ground. Yes, one of my friends passed away before I had chance to find a new one. They buried him in the ground, and I thought I'd be there forever. Luckily, some gravediggers were there, apparently looking for golden rings on his finger. I remember the look of horror on their faces, once I burst out of hideout to greet my unlikely saviors.

So, the dreams. I may never learn the way people write their  history with all those years, centuries and eons. I can understand only one kind of timeline - the one I can decipher through my dreams. In one of them it's raining, while I lay in dirt blood pouring out of my right side.

"Hey, Michael," I hear the voice from a man sitting in a car. "I ain't no happy it had to be this way, but you see, buddy, you left me no choice. You wanted too much, and that's no good. You need to share, buddy."

"Another time he calls me buddy, and I kill him." I am not sure if it was my thought, or my host's. Doesn't matter though. I see this guy, Capone-what's-his-name getting out of his car and walking up to me.

"Hey you! You already dead, are you?"

And he IS dead. His body doesn't move, he stopped breathing and rigor mortis slowly takes the reins of this sorry piece of flesh. Yet, I'm still in control of it, and I will be for quite a long time. It's just that a rotting body is not a good camouflage in the modern society. You could do that a long time ago, and they would worship you, but not today. However, I am fucking sick of this Capone or whatever's his name. I'm tired of his voice and of smell of his cigarettes. And despite rigor mortis I move my hand toward the pistol sitting next to me in the dirt. A sound of thunder pierces the darkness, and he falls right on my body. His partners screams and runs toward his car wetting himself out of fear. Run, boy, run. You still have a chance to die of old age, and I don't. I have no time, I need to find another one, and I stand up. I stand up, and I walk through the city with a large hole in my right side and another one in my throat. I am no pretty now, but I'll see some beautiful faces.

What I like the most is my new friend. She is beautiful. Sometimes I think she can guess my every thought. I think she knows about me. No, not knows, suspects. Perhaps, that's why she tried to take for own life three times already. She'd always leave that stupid note about not wanting to carry 'the evil inside her.' She tried to visit a priest once, but I didn't let her. Her legs didn't move where she wanted them to go. The other day she stabbed the nape of her neck, and I have to admit it hurt a little. Sadly she didn't know that this small bulge is nothing, but my communication device, while I myself am much deeper inside her.

 I probably should reveal myself to her, tell her who I am, and what I need from her. After all, she deserves it more than anyone else did. I can be so sentimental. But before that I'll help her and protect her, as I protected thousands before her.

I guess she'll thank me when she learns the truth.

12
General Discussion / Iodine Room: The Lost Creepypasta
« on: 04:05 PM, 03/ 3/16 »
It's no secret that some creepypastas grew so popular that they became synonymous with the whole genre. They vary in quality (from the likes of Psychosis and Mr. Widemouth to the ones like Jeff The Killer and Sonic.exe), but I'm pretty sure everyone read this story, there are dozens if not hundreds of readings on youtube, they are translated in practically all languages used in the Web.

Some other stories are pretty obscure. One example is Midnight Train - a good story, although largely borrowing from a certain Stephen King's tale. The other one among my favorites is Helen, a good example of a creepy story with a non-supernatural explanation, but it can be hardly found the different top tens that people make.

The truth is that due to the nature of creepypasta, the popularity of a story depends on how many times it was, well, pasted. While some pastas were lucky to be copied, the other ones seem to be completely lost. A fine example of this is Iodine Room. It's been mentioned a few times on 4chan and a couple of times on Terror Tortellini. There's even a short synopsis:

"OH s**t, THE TRAILER'S COLORED WRONG
 HEAR WEIRD s**t
 LIVE FAR AWAY FROM EVERYONE
 HAVE 9000 PEOPLE ASK WHAT HAPPENED TO IODINE GUY"

But the story itself apparently has never been copied and reposted. This is kinda weird, since on Internet, stuff seems to be stored forever, but Iodine Room shows that a work of fiction doesn't even need a fire to be lost without a trace. Personally, I've never read it, but due to this creepypasta's mysterious background, it fascinates me a lot.

Have you heard about stories that mysteriously disappeared the same way?

13
Spooky Images & Websites / Igor Oleynikov's illustrations
« on: 02:43 PM, 02/19/16 »
[attachimg=5][attachimg=6][attachimg=7][attachimg=8]Back in the 90's Eduard Uspensky wrote a book of horror stories for children. The book itself is in Russian, so here are some illustrations by Igor Oleynikov. Most of them are rather funny than scary though. There are more pics here (http://forbidden-creepypasta.tumblr.com/post/139052854940/these-are-i-oleynikovs-illustrations-to-eduard) and here (http://forbidden-creepypasta.tumblr.com/post/139172694745/part-two-of-oleynikovs-illustrations-to).


14
Spooky Stories / The Friend by Archfeared
« on: 12:20 PM, 02/19/16 »
21/8 – 9:00-9:06AM

(9:01) Hey man, we haven’t talked in ages! What’s up?

(9:01) Who’s this?

(9:02) We went to school together! Don’t you remember?

(9:02) I don’t have your number in my phone. Who are you?

(9:03) Nice try, Dan. I’m not fallin for one of your jokes

(9:04) This is not a joke. Just tell me your name and I’ll remember.

(9:05) Are u kidding me? I was your best friend through high school! Remember?

(9:06) I don’t recall having a best friend among my friends. What’s your name?

22/8 – 12:43PM – 1:08PM

(12:43) Hey man, we haven’t talked in ages! What’s up?

(12:43) Is this a joke? You sent me the exact same text yesterday.

(12:46) Nice try, Dan. I’m nt fallin for one of your jokes

(12:47) You said that as well. Whoever this is, you’re not funny.

(12:52) U dont know who I am? I was your best friend through high school? Remember?

(12:54) You said something like that as well. Tell me your name.

(12:58) Nice joke dan

(12:58) I don’t think we ever went to school together. If you’re someone I know, then you know I hate this kind of shit. Please stop.

(1:00) U should know me.

(1:02) Since you refuse to tell me your name, and I possess no ability to discern identity from electronic letters, then no, I don’t know you.

(1:07) im your best friend dan

(1:08) How did you get this number? And how do you know my name?

26/8 – 3:50PM – 4:32PM

(3:50) Hey man, we haven’t talked in ages! What’s up?

(3:50) This is not funny.

(3:52) What are you talking about Dan??

(3:53) Stop this shit. You texted me last Sunday and Monday with the exact same opening line.

(4:00) what are you talking about we haven’t talked in ages

(4:03) Stop it. It’s not funny, and if I find out who is this, I don’t care what our relationship is, it’s over.

(4:04) u know exactly who i am dan.

(4:06) If you’re my supposed best friend, give me a name, a description, anything. Or fuck off.

(4:22) WHY DONT U REMEMBER ME DAN

(4:23) Who is this?

(4:30) REMEMBER ME DAN I AM YOUR FRIEND

(4:32) If you text back I’m calling the police.

30/8 – 6:01PM – 7:01PM

(6:01) Hey man, we haven’t talked in ages! What’s up?

(6:07) No. Enough. You’ve been sending me the same message for more than a week. I don’t care who you are or how you know me. Tell me who you are right now and how you know me, or if you don’t, who gave you my name and number. If your next message contains anything but this, I’m going to police.

(6:30) ddddddddddddddddddddddDAN WHAT ARE YOU SAYING DAN DAN dan dan dan I AM YOUR FRIEND DAN REMEMBER ME DAN WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME im your friendimd your friend danimyourfriend

(6:34) Expect a visit from the police.

(6:58) DAN WHY ARE YOU BEING LIKE THIS DAN DAN I KNOW WAIT wait dan just wait DONT CALL POLICE I COME TO YOU DAN LET ME VISIT YOU THEN YOU WILL RECOGNISE ME DAN LET ME VISIT LET ME leave this place LET ME VISIT YOU WILL KNOW ME DAN

(7:00) If you come near me I’ll kill you.

(7:01) but dan im ur friend

I called the police, who were disinterested at first until I told them I had several conversations. They called the number. According to them it was filled with static. They kept the line open until they traced the call. The police said the building from which the calls were originating was abandoned, and appeared to be so for months.

10/9 – 10:35PM – 12AM

(10:35) Hey man, we haven’t talked in ages! What’s up?

(10:36) Hey buddy! I’ve been waiting for you to call back! Nothing much, you son of a bitch, how’s the house? Suit you alright? I hope so, because I’m going to burn it to the fucking ground with you inside.

(10:40) dan what r u saying

(10:47) I wonder what’ll happen when it burns? I wonder what we’ll find in the rubble? What do you think?

(10:59) i wouldn’t do that if i were u

(11:00) Oh well, I’m sure you’ll get over it. Hey, speaking of which, want me to call you?

(11:11) heheheheheheheheheh this is a fun game dan youre on very loose earth

(11:20) I know exactly what you are, you fuck. It took me a few days, but thankfully you were gracious enough to give me some space.

(11:34) hhahahHAhahahahHHAHAHAHAHHAH im your friend dan don’t you remember me

(11:35) Hey buddy, want me to call you? It’s been a long time, I remember the great conversations we used to have.

(11:40) heheheeheHAHAHHAAHAHHEHEHEHEH ISNT THIS FUNNY DAN CAN I COME OVER DAN WHNY WONT YOU LETMEVISITEJIREADANDANIJHREAEDANAEHREAIHEANJDFDANDANDANDAN CAN I COME OVER PLEASE SAY YESDFJSDFHDSHAHAAHAHAHheheheh im your friend lets play

(11:41) I deny you entry. You can never enter this house.

(11:42) DONT BE A SPOIL SPORT DAN

(11:45) So anyway, shall I call you? You’ve probably got that static problem fixed.

(11:52) dontcallme

(11:53) Why not? Wouldn’t you like me to remember?

(11:59) hahahahehehHEHEhehehheheheh dan you joker is this a joke Hey man what’s up we haven’t talked in three thousand years and a century ago yesterday you know exactly who i am you know exactly who i am YOU KNOW WHO I AM DONT LIE YOU KNOW ME YOU KNOW ME REMEMBER THAT YOU KNOW ME DAN YOU KNOW MEMEMEMEMEEMEMEMEMEMEMEMEMEMEEMEMEMEMEM

(11:59) I’m coming for you, you son of a bitch.

(12:00) ill see you soon dan my friend

15
Spooky Stories / Cycles by Lasergoose
« on: 08:10 AM, 01/19/16 »
It started with some coughing sounds. Then some shifting sounds. Then the voices.

“CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.”

“CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.”



“Are you there?”

“Yes. Seems like a strong signal tonight. Let’s see how long that lasts.”

“They’ve almost got the kinks worked out.”

“They’ve almost had the kinks worked out for months now.”

“No, really. They say one or two more cycles and no more random disconnects.”

“Right.”

“Physical control is already intermittent.”

“What?”

“No, really. You just have to try.”





“Couldn’t even twitch.”

“Well, I said intermittent.”

“Anyway, time’s short, even if we don’t get cut off, so what’s the situation?”

“Well, first off, we worked out the exact staging for this sector. Nighttime, of course.”

“What about law enforcement?”

“We’ll have them by then.”

“Okay. And the military?”

“No one’s going to call them.”

“Right. So, casualties?”

“We’re predicting one or two. Us. No more than half of them. It’ll help that we can tell the difference and they can’t.”

“Of course. Armaments?”

“Half of them have weapons. We’re shifting focus to acquiring those ones. We’ll outgun them.”

“How soon will we be able to mobilize?”

“Within eleven cycles.”

“Really? That’s ahead of schedule. Physical control will be –”

“Total.”

“This is excellent, if the programmers are actually on schedule.”

“They will be. But we have another issue with our immediate unit.”

“What’s that?”

“The genetic offshoots are starting to wonder.”

“The little ones?”

“Well, yeah, though they aren’t as little anymore. Not the two oldest. It’s been awhile here.”

“How long?”

“Just awhile, alright? It’s not a one-to-one conversion, but yeah, stuff happens differently here. They’re a little bit taller. Not much, but they’re independently mobile and capable of identifying unusual patterns. And I think they’ve been listening.”

“Can we just ac-”

“Too little still.”



“Well, really not much we can do now. Intermittent control, right?”

“Well, I’ve been practicing. And I’m going to try to neutralize the larger one the first chance I get.”

“Isn’t that risky?”

“Not too risky. Compromising positions should be easy. I’m her mother, rememb-CONNECTION INTERRUPTED.”



“Pfft. One or two more cycles my-CONNECTION INTERRUPTED.”



More shifting. Then snoring.

***

We listened for another thirty seconds, speechless, before Angie hit stop on the digital recorder.

Then she started to laugh. It was unnatural, shrill. It stopped as soon as she looked at me, her eyes wide and wet.

My arm moved quickly, seemingly on its own, and grabbed the recorder. She didn’t resist, and I couldn’t.

“See?” she said, a strange tremor in her voice, as I watched my thumb hit the delete button despite my mental protests. “I - I told you you snored.”

Pages: [1] 2