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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.


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.


'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.


'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.


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.

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.

Some called me
A rapping masta
Now I'm writin'
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 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. 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.


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.



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.


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.


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.


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.




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

One last push.





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 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.


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.

Troll Stories / The Head from the Threshold
« on: 02:12 PM, 07/19/17 »
A translation of this story:,_%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.

Your Stories / Re: 12/31/2016
« on: 03:26 AM, 01/29/17 »
I liked it. My favorite color, my favorite size.

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.

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:

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.

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.


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.


General Discussion / Re: Places That Should Not Be
« on: 04:17 PM, 08/21/16 »
The titular piece of landscape in Michael Whitehouse's On a Hill.

General Discussion / Re: Jeff the Killer is...
« on: 08:09 AM, 08/20/16 »
I'll go as far as saying that Jeff the killer almost ruined creepypasta. It's true, there are worse stories than Jtk, but it was a fine example of a terrible idea that got a sort of following which filled the Internet with myriads of bad stories giving the bad name to the whole genre. The worst part is most of the authors didn't even tried to create something even remotely scary - most of their work was either revenge or hybristophiliac fantasies.

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.

Your Stories / Re: I work as a Janitor
« on: 10:58 AM, 06/ 6/16 »
To be honest, I felt like there were too many unnecessary details in the beginning and not enough consequences in the end. While the central part with the room of jars is pretty unsettling, it feels more like a non-sequitur than an implication of some hidden horrors.

Yet, I might be too benumbled by the genre in general to appreciate stories like this.

General Discussion / Re: CreepyPasta Illustrations Ideas
« on: 07:42 AM, 05/28/16 »
As an illustration for Penpal, I suggest a baloon with an envelope attached to it, and a shadowy hand reaching for it.

Story Critique / Re: Personally Leonid Ilyitch
« on: 01:47 PM, 05/26/16 »
Thanks for the reading!

Story Critique / Re: Peronally Leonid Ilyitch
« on: 09:18 PM, 05/24/16 »
What I was asking is if this translation is, at least, readable. Judging by your comment it is.

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:

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“.

Bad Stories / Re: Wrong Bus
« on: 12:29 PM, 05/13/16 »

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