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Messages - CandleClock

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16
Bad Stories / Re: Wrong Bus
« on: 03:34 PM, 05/12/16 »
Just a random Joe Schmoe who walked in the cabin the same day.

17
Story Critique / Re: Cäzilia
« on: 03:59 PM, 05/ 2/16 »
In fact, when I was writing this piece, I was relying on the reader not knowing about the original murder case and finding it out through googling names and dates used in the pasta. As I believed back then, the lack of clarity would contribute to putting the reader in the boots of the protagonist who is a child and doesn't understand what's going on. This would create a confusing image, but after you see the whole picture, everything comes to the head. But without supplementary information the story still doesn't make sense.

18
Story Critique / Re: Cäzilia
« on: 07:38 PM, 05/ 1/16 »
This is an old story, and it's not a good one. However, I decided to repost this piece because it had a pretty interesting comment.

Quote
It's a retelling of the Hinterkaifeck murders in Germany through the eyes of one of its victims. It's very famous in the Fatherland (Site in German), and Caezilia in the title is the name of two of the victims, one of whom is the viewpoint character. The viewpoint character was killed by means of a pickaxe, along with several members of her family, between half seven and nine in the evening of 31 March 1922. The assailant was never caught.

The author seems to have confused setting, storytelling and mystery with requiring readers to search Google.de. If your story can't stand on its own without that, you're doing very badly. If the search brings up the entire plot of your story, you're doing even worse.

So, what do you guys think about it? Should a good creepypasta stand on its own or it can require the reader doing some sort of research to understand the big story behind a small fragment? Would it make the story more effective or just confusing and annoying?

19
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?

20
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

21
I'd say it was the one that ended with "I screamed as it ripped my head off." Don't remember the title though.

22
General Discussion / Re: House of Leaves
« on: 06:39 PM, 04/18/16 »
I wasn't saying that you're full of shit (xd). Yet you asked if HoL belongs to the same subgenre as Abandoned by Disney and Candle Cove, and my question is: do AbD and CC make part of the same genre? A sole glance on the way the two stories are written shows how different they are. The only thing they have in common IMO is building a sort of modern myth based on the popular culture (disney corporation for the former and shoddy 70's television for the latter). In the same time, the format and scare tactic are very different.

23
General Discussion / Re: House of Leaves
« on: 05:48 PM, 04/18/16 »
The truth is that the word has come to have so many different meanings. For some, creepypasta must always be short; for others it must necessarily be realistic. I've seen fangirls using the word creepypasta to refer to the characters, not the stories. In a way, creepypasta evolved from an Internet phenomenon, usually bound to imageboards to simply a horror story.

As for HoL, I think it did influence creepypasta genre a lot. I've even seen a couple of threads where people tried to sell extracts from the novel as creepypastas.

24
General Discussion / Re: House of Leaves
« on: 05:18 PM, 04/18/16 »
Now I get it. Still, a lot of classic creepypastas don't fall into that definition. In fact, they do quite the opposite: they are minimalistic and generalizing, giving the reader a sort of skeletal writing.

By this kind of stories I mean "No portraits, only windows", "Dogs can lick too", "Red and white" and many others.

25
General Discussion / Re: House of Leaves
« on: 04:56 PM, 04/18/16 »
That's why the word creepypasta isn't relevant today - now it just means horror fiction including all its subgenres from zombie apocalypses to the stalker thrillers.

Which is why asking if HoL is a creepypasta doesn't really make sense. It does belong to the horror fiction, but so do the books by Stephen King, Bram Stoker, Lovecraft and thousands of others. Are they all creepypasta too? Therefore the definition is kinda murky.

As for your criteria, I looked up Flemming effect. and I didn't find anything. Could you, please, explain?

26
General Discussion / Re: House of Leaves
« on: 04:34 PM, 04/18/16 »
House of Leaves is not a creepypasta because it wasn't copied and pasted anywhere. Basically, the word 'creepypasta' doesn't refer to a specific subgenre of horror, but to the mode of its circulation, which is why the "true" creepypasta should be, above all, short. So it's easier to repost it from a forum to forum and from a site to a site without deleting/adding any parts. HoL definitely doesn't meet that criteria.

27
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.

28
General Discussion / Re: The Origin of Your Username
« on: 04:29 PM, 03/24/16 »
As I can remember, it was a play on candlecove and Candlejack, plus some really old sto

29
Story Critique / Re: Memories
« on: 09:10 AM, 03/22/16 »
Personally, I wanted this creature to as vague, as possible, so it wouldn't be 'another spider' or 'another octopus'.

30
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.

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