Trollpasta.com is now part of "The TooSpooky Network". What should we do with it? Post your thoughts here!

Recent Posts

Pages: [1] 2 3 ... 10
1
Story Critique / Seymour
« Last post by pmraptor115 on 11:14:42 AM 06/24/17 »
Seymour doesn’t work at the Lutz Children’s Museum in Manchester, Connecticut anymore.  I have no idea where he is, but  he sure as hell isn’t here. 

Seymour started two years after I did.  We get a lot of turnover because our staff tend to be on the younger side, and their always going off to bigger and better things; school, other jobs, etc.  Being a college dropout, my options are fairly limited, so I’ve stayed here, content with what I’ve got for several years now. Seymour came in the summer of 2012, having come home from going to art school in New York City.  The guy had a love of animals, and a real knack for education, so naturally he was a great fit.  Now, a lot of educators, especially public ones working with young kids, tend to be really over-the-top enthusiastic, as if every correct answer of a basic biology question was enough to give them a four hour erection.  And I get it, kids like that, they really do.  But what I appreciated about Seymour was how much more subdued he was.  He was a lot more quiet, and a lot more conversation, even with kids.  He didn’t get all that excited very often, but when he did, you knew it was genuine.  The others educators always seemed to be putting on act, at least to some extent.  But there was no bullshit with Seymour.  He would take out the corn snake or one of the mourning doves, sit down on the stage, and just talk to you.  I really did appreciate that about him.

We’re a tiny museum, and I mean really tiny.  Maybe not the smallest museum in the world, but damn near close, gotta be.  Our exhibits mostly cater to very young children.  We have a lot of live animals, though most of them are CT natives or domestics.  Most of the museum is mostly dedicated to play areas and activity centers where kids can color, do arts and crafts, play pretend and such.  For a museum like this, everybody does a little bit of everything; admissions, gift shop, animal care, programs, etc.  Seymour excelled at doing programs and taking care of the animals, but like all of us, he also spent a good deal of time at the front desk.

Desk duty can be awful, especially on slow days.  People soon learn to find some way to pass the time.  For Seymour, that meant bringing in his laptop.  Generally, we frown on that sort of thing.  Surfing the web on the clock just isn’t very professional if you ask me.  But he assured us all he was just working on a writing project, wouldn’t even need the internet.  Now, that seemed perfectly fine to all of us, but we weren’t gonna just take his word for it.  Every so often, on a slow day when Seymour was at the desk not doing anything else, I’d peek over his shoulder just a bit.  Sure enough, he was just typing away on a word document.  I couldn’t see what he was writing, but I didn’t need to.  It was personal.  And I figured, if I was allowed to read Dean Koontz novels when I was on desk duty, then there’s no reason he shouldn’t be allowed to write. 

Whatever he was working on must have been pretty important, to him at least.  He would type like his fingers were on fire, staring intently at the screen.  When people came in, he’d see to them with politeness and courtesy, and then go back to typing, never breaking the flow completely.  It was downright impressive.  As time went on and on, I grew all the more curious about just what he was writing.  A novel?  A movie script?  A business proposal?  I asked him one day what it was, but he just waved me off, saying, “Nothing special, just a little personal project.”  Whatever it was, it had to be long.  He worked on it nearly every day that summer, except when it was too busy. 

As August was just finishing up and Seymour was preparing to go back to school, I finally had to know.  After all, he might not come back next summer.  So I waited until he took a bathroom break.  He asked to cover for him while he went, which I was only so glad to do.  I took my place at the desk, his laptop just a little bit to the right.  He’d minimized the document so nobody would accidentally see what he was working on if they passed by.  Feeling just a little naughty, I pulled up the document. 

I saw the sentence, “I HATE MYSELF,” written in bold, underlined, italics over and over again. 

I scrolled through page after page, up and down the screen.  The current page was listed at 288.  Doing a quick word count, I saw that the total number of words was 145,983.  With a revelation like this, I fell into the pit fall I promised myself I would avoid: I lingered too long.

I heard Seymour coming back from the bathroom, and panicked.  I minimized the document again, but it was too late.  He knew.  It was obvious as I turned around at saw him staring at me, still as stone.  In a kind of surreal way, it was like looking at a completely different person, as if he’d been possessed on his way back from the bathroom. 

You know, there are so many things in life that you just never notice unless you’re looking for them.  It’s a kinda freaky thought if you think about it for long enough.  As for Seymour, I don’t think a single person had ever noticed the red gashes on the inside of his left forearm.  I know I sure hadn’t, not until then, when I was looking at him in an entirely different way. 

I got up from my seat, offering it back to him with a few gibbering pleasantries.  He didn’t say anything as he sat back down.  When he returned to his post, I heard him pounding on those keys harder and faster than ever, adding God knows how many more iterations to the collection.  I turned away and headed off to the exact opposite end of the museum. 

I was both relieved and disappointed that that was Seymour’s last day for the season.  Once he was gone, I wasn’t entirely sure what – if anything – to do with the information I’d learned.  I debated for weeks whether I should tell anyone at work, or just let things lie.  I eventually decided that I’d violated his private business enough.  I mean, he was gone at that point; it’s not as if blabbing his secrets would have led to him getting any help.  The closest I came was asking someone if they’d ever noticed those nasty slashes on his arm.

“No?” said the head of animal care with confusion.  “Why, was it bad?”

I made up some bullshit about them being caused by his cat, and nobody gave it a second thought. 

Five years later, and Seymour has never set foot inside the Lutz Children’s Museum ever since.  I have no idea what happened to the kid.  But I do hope he’s doing alright.
2
Story Critique / Found in Nature
« Last post by Old Mosey on 01:59:53 AM 06/24/17 »
Hi this is my first creepypenne, I don't know what I'm doing.
[Working title. Working everything. How do I unfuck my formatting.]

----------------
    
        The summer after my freshman year of college, I went hiking in the woods with two friends from high school. Our actual destination was the ruins of a chapel located somewhere on the former grounds of an abandoned seminary. Casey’s brother had claimed it was a hotspot for urban explorers, but the patch of road where the entrance was supposed to be was completely devoid of anyone but us. We were just beginning to think we had the wrong address when Matt saw the stone staircase across the street, just past the tree line. The stairs were narrow and mostly hidden by foliage, only three or four steps visible from where we were. There was no sign pointing it out, and Matt said that if he hadn’t looked at it from the exact place he’d been standing, he never would have seen it.

        Matt and I had some experience traversing abandoned places, and we both understood the importance of wearing pants despite the heat. I had a backpack with a first-aid kit, water, and flashlights. Casey wore shorts and brought nothing but his phone, and would spend every ensuing trip through the undergrowth crouched behind Matt and me so that we could clear a path and knock away any spider webs and stinging insects. As a six-foot tall hockey player, Matt was the natural choice to lead us through the brushwood, shoving away branches with a stick. I was next, and at the back of the line was Casey, who mumbled a near-constant stream of profanity as he managed to trip over thorn bushes that Matt and I had already stomped down. I wasn’t totally unsympathetic, but it kind of ate away at my sanity. About half an hour into the trip I found a spider the size of a nickel sitting on a leaf and stopped to nudge it into my palm. Casey bumped into me from behind and grunted, annoyed. “What? Do you see something?”

        I turned and threw the spider at him. “Oh shit, Casey watch out!”

        Immediately after this I was forcibly moved to the front so that Matt could stand between us. I told Casey that it was an orb weaver and orb weavers don’t even bite, but he wasn’t having any of it. We all switched places and Matt tapped me on both shoulders with the stick, handing it over with an air of ceremony. “Justin, this is your penance. Take us to church.”

   In the places where we weren’t clawing our way through nettles, a dirt path led us through greenery so lush that occasionally it looked tropical. Other than that, it would have been none too different from any other Mid-Atlantic forest had it not been for the stone staircases. Six, if I remember correctly. They were situated at seemingly random points along the trail, almost always concealed by blockades of nettles. Matt pointed out that they were part of the original seminary grounds then they had to have been at least a century old but they were in great condition, all undamaged, if maybe a little dirty. We weren’t too bothered about getting lost—it was too strange, too exciting. The only consistent direction we moved in was up.

        At the top of the last staircase the path became stone, flanked by two squat pillars which may have once had a gate running between them. Both were tagged with splashes of graffiti, neon yellow and pink bubble letters. The promised chapel was absent. Instead, the dirt path lead to a gazebo-like structure. It had a dome roof entirely covered in vines, and was held up at four corners by pairs of slender, fluted columns. At the center of the structure was a raised stone dais, upon which sat a large rectangular block, waist-high and at least seven feet long, which looked as if it hadn’t been placed on the floor so much as carved out of it. I briefly entertained the thought of lying down on it, but opted not to—if it was anywhere near as old as the stairs seemed to be, then someone had definitely fucked there at some point.

         Inside, the original ceiling had fallen away, and creeping vines from nearby trees stretched across the dome’s support beams in its place. I’d been to a lot of abandoned sites, but for whatever reason that one really struck me. It was honestly beautiful, and I don’t use that word very often. Even the crushed cans of beer and empty plastic wrappers didn’t take away from it. I put my hand on the stone block and realized at once that it was an altar. I was surprised by how certain I was, tried to make myself doubt the assumption and couldn’t.

        “This is a weird place to get drunk.” Casey said, looking out into the small clearing in the bushes behind the gazebo. I heard the rattle of tin cans skittering across the floor as he kicked them into the grass. “Look, somebody brought a handle of Everclear. Drank like half of it.”

        Matt leaned over the altar to see. “They probably died before they could finish.”

        The three of us started examining the trash scattered outside the gazebo, trying to decide which items had been brought together, and what kind of person would be carrying them. I should mention that finding the written record that Casey took was what compelled me to write all this down.

        In case you can’t see the picture, here’s the text:
           -2 cans Bud Light
           -1 can of Monster
           -empty beef jerky packet
           -Box of Newports (empty)
           -half a handle of Everclear
           -fleshlight jar of something
           -two big screws (?)
           -Marlboro reds
           -2 cans hamms
           -5 cans of Hamms
           -plastic deer park bottles
           -6 cans of sparkling lemon water (???)
           -Unknown number of torn fruit rollups wrappers

   I soon lost interest this exercise, and eventually broke away to go look at the altar again. As I stepped over the threshold of the gazebo I saw, for a moment, a silver glint. I moved slightly so that I wasn’t blocking the sunlight and it appeared again, brighter this time, from between the two pillars at the front-right corner. I moved closer to investigate and stooped in front of it, using the light of my phone to try and get an idea of what I was looking at. I could tell it was a metal object about the size of my hand, but it was wedged between the columns, too far back to discern the shape of it. After making sure I wasn’t putting my hand on any sharp edges, I grabbed it and managed to shimmy the thing out.

        Honest to god, it looked like some kind of futuristic ray gun more than anything else. I know that’s stupid, but the first thought that popped into my head was that it was one of the phasers from Star Trek, and then I couldn’t un-see it. It was made of (or at least plated with) dull chrome, shaped like a gun with an angular barrel and a little metal circle at the back where you might load it. It even had the little silver cylinder at the end of the muzzle. I resisted the urge to put my finger on the trigger. That was probably a bad idea no matter what kind of gun it was. There didn’t seem to be a safety—not that I knew what one of those would look like to begin with. I’m not sure why I didn’t show it to Matt and Casey. Maybe, in the back of my mind, I really did think it was some kind of firearm, or maybe I was just hot and tired and didn’t feel like sharing it. I chose instead was to undermine my earlier precaution by shoving the damn thing in my backpack. I know, I know. I was an idiot at seventeen, and the possibility of accidentally jostling the trigger and blowing my own legs off never occurred to me.

   “Hey, Justin,” Matt was standing under the archway at the back of the gazebo. His voice startled me, and I stood up so fast I nearly fell over. “Come look at this shit me and Casey just found.”

   Matt lead me through a few tall bushes behind the gazebo and into another clearing, surrounded by trees. In the center was a weathered white delivery van, paint faded and streaked with rust. The conditions of its wheels ranged from ‘flat’ to ‘gone.’ Picture your classic creepy van, parked in the middle of the woods, miles away from any discernable roads. Its front fender was completely crushed, curved slightly inward on each side as if the point of impact had been directly in the center.

   Casey was wandering around the clearing, taking pictures of the van from various angles. I was too surprised to react immediately, and Matt pointed at the van as if I hadn’t seen it. “Went to take a piss and stumbled across this shit. Fucking weird.” He walked up to it and slapped a hand on the bent hood. “Hit a tree,” he said knowingly, “wrapped around it and wrecked the engine, so it got left behind.”

   “But how the fuck did it get here?” I asked. “There’s no way it could have driven through those woods.”

   Matt shrugged. “Maybe it climbed the stairs.”

   “Guys, look,” Casey, several feet away, held up a dirt-caked blue latex glove. “There’s at least seven of these disposable medical gloves here. The van belongs to a rogue proctologist.”

   I gestured back at the vehicle in question. “You should knock and see if you can get an appointment.”

   The conversation kind of spiraled, and we spent a good three minutes trying to get each other to bang on the side. We knew it was abandoned, but it was still kind of spooky—that was what made it appealing. Casey suggested it might be haunted, scared himself, and moved to the edge of the clearing so that he could run back the way we came in case something jumped out at us. In the end I was the one who did it, just so that Casey would stop freaking out about the whole thing. I walked up to the van and knocked politely against the passenger side door.

   In a weird way, it was almost kind of predictable, how the back doors of the van started to open just seconds afterwards. A few moments of silence and then a long creak, and then both white doors were opening slowly, someone was pushing their way out. That was the last coherent thought I had before my flight mechanism kicked in. I guess we were all creeped out enough at the thought of someone being in there that when it actually happened everyone bolted without any preamble whatsoever, hurling ourselves through the briars and barely feeling them. Honestly, I’m surprised we all managed to stay together after we passed the gazebo and lost any familiar landmarks. We would get tired, walk for a while, then start running again. No idea how long the pattern continued, but it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes at most. All I know is that I left the woods with my head spinning and throat burning with thirst.

        As soon as we could speak, we started arguing about what had just happened. I was the only one who would admit that someone was in there. Matt said that my knocking created reverberations that dislodged the rusty doors. To this day Casey insists that it was some kind of ghost, which is fucking stupid, but I guess it makes him feel better. (Incidentally, it turned out we did have the wrong address. We’d missed the seminary grounds by miles.)

        I forgot entirely about the phaser/ray gun thing until I opened my backpack that night and found it sitting on top of the first aid kit box. It was such a bizarre piece of information that it didn’t seem to fit into the day’s events at all, and so I barely associated it with the whole incident. I brought it back to college in the fall, and for a while I’d show it to friends who came to hang out in my door room, but nobody could tell me what it was. I even used it as a prop for a Halloween costume at one point, once I wasn’t convinced it was going to blow something up. Eventually the novelty of showing it around wore off, and it stayed on the shelf in my room. It went more or less unnoticed until my senior year, when a girlfriend in the pre-med program picked it up and asked, with some amusement, why I owned a bone drill.

3
Your Stories / Sleep with one eye open
« Last post by Etherialshroud on 11:36:01 PM 06/23/17 »
I was 8 years old at the time.  We lived in a house down a dirt road next to a car dealership on the right and woods in the back of our house.  I can't make this story too long. Because being so young I can't remember all of the details.  But what I do remember before my parents were gruesomely murdered by the intruder. Was this.  It was a Sunday night in 1984. And we finished the ABC Sunday movie Superman together.  My parents put me to bed and tucked me in.  I heard them lock things up and turn off the television and the lights.  I awoke to a thud, then my mother screaming my dad's name. Then I heard a struggle and more sounds of stabbing and then another thud.  I was so terrified, I knew something was horribly wrong and that someone was in our house.  The next thing I remember was truly horrifying.  My bedroom door opened slowly. The intruder turned on my lights and I immediately acted like I was asleep.  He disappeared into the hallway and drug my dad's body into my room and propped him in a chair in my room, then he left and came back and brought my moms body into my bedroom.  I kept my eyes closed trying to take a peek without the intruder seeing me peek.  He dipped his glove into my dads open wound and started writing something onto my wallpaper.  What seemed like hours, he set in my room. Writing slowly on my wall with my parent's blood.  When he finally left and I opened my eyes.  The message on the wall read.  I know you're Awake.  I immediately fled my home screaming for help, as I saw the intruder take off into the woods.  My neighbor further down the road came and brought me in a called the police.  To this day.  I cannot sleep soundly knowing that someone can come into your home and destroy it all, as soon as you close your eyes.   
4
it is 11:13pm   
The midnight oil will soon burn.
5
Story Critique / The Day the World Broke
« Last post by pmraptor115 on 10:52:39 AM 06/23/17 »
One day, everything broke.  Up was no longer up.  It was left.  Right became South.  Mathematics quickly became a matter of casual opinion (You might say that 2 + 2 = 4, but to me, it looks more like 2 +2 = carrots).  Nobody knows quite how everything broke, as we lost both the means and capacity to study it.  All we remember is that it started with cracks.  Children noticed cracks on their bedroom walls, cracks that shone brilliant blue, and felt colder than ice.  Then we saw them in the ground.  Across the mountains.  Over the sky, and on the surface of the ocean.  Cracks, cracks, bright freezing cracks everywhere.  And then, everything broke. 

The sky – when you can see it – flows like a river between clouds as hard as steel.  I couldn’t tell you the color – our old words for colors don’t really mean much anymore.  I once heard somebody describe the color as, ‘perdition in marinara,’ which made sense at the time, but now I’m not so sure.  Of course,  I’m not never really sure of anything anymore.  I don’t think anybody is, really (except maybe the crows, who seem certain about everything).

Land and sea are no longer so easily discernable.  So much of the land is melted into jelly-like puddles, while the ocean rises in waves that freeze into mountains.  Same goes for plants and animals.  I’ve seen fields of dogs with their paws fused to the ground by some kind of viscous, yellow fluid, standing perfectly still as small insects fly in and out of their ears and noses.  They were all but helpless as herds of gigantic, lampreys dragged themselves over the land on thousands of spindly legs, sucking up the hapless canines and mashing them to bloody bits.  Then there was the rabbit with rose petals growing out of its face.  It might have been beautiful if not for the thorns. 

People don’t really know what to do with themselves anymore; physically, emotionally, mentally.  Many just die because they don’t know how to do anything else anymore.  When a person dies, they don’t rot away completely.  All the soft pieces fester and slough off the bones, only to crawl away to take care of their own business.  The bones will try to put themselves together, but with nothing to hold them together, it’s a fruitless endeavor. 

Those that don’t will themselves to die, try their hand at ‘life’ whatever that means anymore.  For one person I saw a few weeks ago, it meant climbing along the hairs of some titanic, mammalian mountain, grasping at parasites the size of cats with his spider-like fingers.  For three women I stumbled upon on Saturday, it meant burying themselves in sand upside down, their legs and genitals sticking out of the sand.  They swayed their legs gently in the wind, trying to attract the attention of nearby animals, who would then fall into their enormous pit-like vaginal canals, where they would be crushed and digested.  These are some of the more normal folks I’ve passed by recently.  The rest can no longer be safely regarded as human.

What do you think of our broken world?  Whatever you may think, it’s home now.  People can barely remember what things used to be like, and the subject has been the matter of intense debate among those creatures who can speak.  The reality s, however, that – not only can we NOT fix things – we wouldn’t even know if we succeeded when we finished.     
6
Story Critique / Re: [Archived] DoorlessChambers Forums
« Last post by CrackedMack on 09:07:00 PM 06/22/17 »
Quote
but was the intention to say that this individual is also the dead technician from the article linked at the end?

That actually was not the case, but I'm glad you brought that up because I'm trying to find a way to make it clearer what my intention is without spelling it out too much. What I want to get at is that Lamprey/ghostLAMP might be responsible for the CM's death, or at least that's the notion Ravenswood comes to. There's a post earlier where she says she's going to visit her uncle who works at DL Paris soon, which I hoped would be a stronger hint.
7
Story Critique / Re: [Archived] DoorlessChambers Forums
« Last post by Skill Flea on 10:33:38 PM 06/21/17 »
Hey David,

I thought the story was adequately written and the occurrences in the online chat are very believable. There's quite a lot of chatter about the the previous two stories, which I guess is the point of the discussion and that's fine, but I'm having trouble understanding the purpose of this story. Nothing new really happens until the ending, when that crazed online user creates the other account and rants about proving everyone wrong or whatever. I assume ghostLAMP is the new account created by MadamLamprey after he got banned, but was the intention to say that this individual is also the dead technician from the article linked at the end? I'm not 100% sure but I just don't see this immature character being someone whose a 45 year old man who worked as a technician for 14 years and ends up dying. Unless this thread takes place way before this event or maybe I'm simply misinterpreting something?

Overall, I liked it and enjoyed reading your work. I laughed at how realistic this story was based on how these types of chat rooms/threads can be sometimes. But I feel like maybe the victim from this incident should've been someone more similar to ohyestheydo. Someone who worked at Disney as a technician, who was a skeptic that was angry at the thread for "talking about non-sensible bullshit", got banned for being a dick, came back and felt the need to prove to everyone that this was all horse shit, and goes off to the mansion he works at prove that nothing is there. Only to end up dying mysterious in a haunted house.

It was a fun read though, keep up the good work.

- John
8
Story Critique / [Archived] DoorlessChambers Forums
« Last post by CrackedMack on 05:42:11 PM 06/21/17 »
Hey gang. Looking for some honest feedback before I go any further with this. This is the pseudo-third installment to what I started with Grad Night in the Haunted Mansion. It's not quite polished yet but I feel it's a presentable first draft. Let me know what you think!

---

DoorlessChambers.com Forum [ARCHIVED]

Haunted Mansion > The Grand Hall (Discussion) > Disquieting Metamorphasis (Rumors) > [MOVED] HM Conspiracies?

cacklemeyer:
I'm sure these kind of things have been floating around the web for awhile, but I found a couple of weird stories once about real ghosts and secret tunnels underneath the Disneyland and WDW mansions. There's one written by a guy who was at DL on a grad night in the 80s, and one by a CM working at Magic Kingdom. I think they got reposted and taken down a few times, because now I can't seem to find them anywhere. Does anyone happen to know where they might be, and if so, how valid any of them are?

Freddie The Bat:
Try here and here. I think they're just creepypasta.

cacklemeyer:
Thanks Freddie. That was driving me crazy! I guess they finally found their way onto some archives, the first story's been circulating for a few years at least.

MadamLamprey:
OMG I remember these stories! Finally someone found them their pretty good but are they real? 'cause normally people write stories about the ghosts and the mansion like I do, not about it in real life.

YoungMasterGracey:
Freddie's right when he says they're creepypastas. Kudos to whoever wrote them though, some of the details are scary accurate, right down to the events being timed around real deaths in the parks. It's pretty morbid.

cacklemeyer:
True, it's part of why I asked in the first place. I know some of it can't be verified, but some of it is pretty spot-on. Just enough to tickle my brain, make me wonder about it. If anything I figured it would be fun to discuss the mystery parts, you know?

Freddie The Bat:
Personally it lost me when the author mentioned utilidors under Disneyland in the first story. I mean... come on. XD

YoungMasterGracey:
Honestly it's not that weird to make that mistake though, especially if the writer is saying this was something he/she thought about as a kid in the 80s. There was probably false information spread around by kids who didn't know all the facts. Also the woman in the other story pointed that out too.

The point where you realize these stories are fake is when the two named characters in them are Mike and Karen, but again, points for a fun little wink and nod from the author.

MadamLamprey:
Wait theres also two different versions of the grad night story because Mike disappeared for good in the one I read before but in the one that was archived its different! Mike comes back and takes the car and leaves! Why is it different??

YoungMasterGracey:
Such is the nature of the internet, Lamprey. Must have gotten changed or edited somewhere along the way if it was posted anonymously in the first place. Who knows.

MadamLamprey:
If I were the writer I wouldnt write anything anonymously though I'd want people to know I wrote it. That way if anyone made a change I could bring out the original version and show them wrong!

Ravenswood:
Moved this thread to the Rumors section, it seems more fitting there with a title like "HM Conspiracies?" Let's try not to go into NoSleep territory here, if you please.

MadamLamprey:
Whats NoSleep?

cacklemeyer:
Thanks Ravenswood.

Lamprey, try Googling it.

I guess my point with this thread is that it seems like both stories are alluding to some sort of grand conspiracy, which is really intriguing to me. Whatever is happening under the mansions has to do with when people actually die in the parks. I know that the "Man with the Cane" really has been sighted by a few CMs working at Florida's mansion, or at least that's the claim. I don't know if anyone has ever described a roaming Hatbox Ghost at Disneyland, but the popular urban legend for that mansion is the one about the crying boy. I'm surprised that never came up!

Anyway, fake or not I want to discuss theories with y'all!

Freddie The Bat:
Alright cackles. I'll bite. XD

Took another read through both of them. Whenever someone dies in the parks, these rooms and halls kind of appear beneath the mansions, and are accessed in weird ways. I guess they're supposed to be like extra-dimensional spaces or something. Some of doors have little out-of-place touches to them that could also be matched to how each person died - chronologically speaking, of course. Definitely get that part of it.

What isn't really delved into is why people dying in the parks causes this to happen, or why the Hatbox Ghost and the man with the cane are there when it happens. That all seems random to me. Are they guards? Prisoners? Soul-collectors? No solid answer, which I guess is kind of the point since they're creepypasta and some of it has to be left unknown.

YoungMasterGracey:
Maybe each mansion has its own guardian ghost, who appears when something like this happens. Could be they're released for a bit when someone dies nearby, perhaps to catch the lost soul and stick them in the prop rooms. WHY that would happen I have no clue!

cacklemeyer:
How did you line this up, Freddie? Any chance we can see a list of Disney park deaths? (Yikes. That's a morbid request...)

Freddie The Bat:
Ask and ye shall receive! I put together a quick list here of all deaths associated with Disneyland up to 1983, and then of WDW until 2004:

1964 - Teenage boy stands up on Matterhorn, falls out, dies three days later
1966 - Teenage boy crushed under Monorail after trying to sneak in on the track
1967 - Teenage boy crushed to death under Peoplemover car while jumping between cars
1973 - Teenage boy drowns in Rivers of America (sensing a pattern here?)
1974 - Female CM crushed between walls in America Sings.
1979 - Woman falls into coma after riding Space Mountain, dies a week later
1980 - Teenage boy crushed to death under Peoplemover car while jumping between cars (AGAIN!)
1981 - Teenage boy fatally stabbed in Tomorrowland during fight.
1983 - Teenage boy drown in Rivers of America (the Grad Night death)

1977 - Child drowns in Cinderella's Castle moat
1980 - Young girl becomes ill riding Space Mountain, dies later
1982 - Toddler falls from tram in parking lot
1982 - Toddler hit by falling menu board
1984 - Family of three killed when small plane crashes in EPCOT parking lot
1986 - Man and woman drown after car crashed into retention pond, EPCOT parking lot
1992 - Man commits suicide with a shotgun in EPCOT
1995 - Girl with heart condition loses consciousness on Body Wars, dies later
1999 - Male custodian killed in fall from Skyway gondola
2000 - Man killed when hit by Splash Mountain log trying to exit
2004 - Male CM run over by parade float (the Man with the Cane death)

And that's just in close proximity to the parks! Don't even get me started on the deaths that have happened in other parts of the resort or the water parks. You all know about River Country...

Main thing is that there's way more deaths at DL and WDW listed here than there are doors under either mansion, so that feels like a definite debunk there. Should have been way more doors.

cacklemeyer:
I'm almost sorry I asked, haha. That's messed up.

YoungMasterGracey:
I'm not so sure. Do you know about Disney's policy of never declaring people dead in the parks? Its a weird thing they do whenever they can feasibly do it. Even if someone is killed instantly, Disney always tries to say that the victim did not really expire until they were beyond the park. You can imagine a lot of people passed "in transit" to a hospital, at least on paper.

Freddie The Bat:
Well that complicates things. I didn't know about that. There's some obvious cases where someone didn't die until later, but for others now it's even harder to tell.

cacklemeyer:
Thats bonkers! Disney cares about their image that far! Can't spoil anything for the guests, right?

So keeping that in mind, the Grad Night prop room numbers still make sense. WDW is still a stretch but its a lot more feasible. Maybe we're missing a pattern. What circumstances cause the doors to appear and what factors add another room? And what are they storing down there?

MadamLamprey:
Ok I see whats happening now! This makes me inspired to keep writing my Phantom manor story even tho its not about the ride its more about how Melanie and Constance meet each other and fight over grooms. Hey speaking of could if you guys are talking about this could you please maybe go and read what I have so far in the Library board?

ohyestheydo:
Ha. The only pattern I see in these stories is how much they get wrong. How you can take any of this remotely seriously despite the glaring flaws is beyond me, especially the second one. Any CM worth their salt would know what is accurate. I call foul.

cacklemeyer:
Care to elaborate, ohyes? I'm honestly interested in what you have to say.

MadamLamprey:
Wow thats really kind of rude ohyestheydo! How would you feel if someone said your stories were bad and had flaws huh? I bet that would make you really sad!! You dont have to be so darn rude!

ohyestheydo:
@MadamLamprey: You'll understand when you're older what criticism is, dear.

@cacklemeyer: Speaking as an actual CM who has worked at the Haunted Mansion, there's a number of well-done guesses on the part of the writer, but it stops short of being believable for these reasons:

-There's only one security camera, in the load area. All other methods of detecting whether someone gets on or off the ride where they aren't supposed to are through intrusion mats and infrared beams. The ride won't even run unless they're turned on, so when the narrator says she got out and nothing halted, she should have known that what was happening was impossible.

-Walking through the attraction with the lights on is nothing special. We do it all the time for regular maintainance.

-There is a little workshop that is accessed through the Endless Hallway, and I think the writer mentioned that door as the one that leads underground (where, I should mention, there is no utilidor access from the show building). If it wasn't that door, then she should have known about it and made reference to it.

-Furthermore, you cannot go past the scrim at the end of the hall unless you break it.

-Walkie-talkies are only used by managers and coordinators.

-WDI never stores props underground.

-Also, in the first one, I'm pretty sure you can't go under the upramp in the Disneyland mansion. There'd be no space down there what with the equipment used to keep it running.

-That place the doombuggies go through to loop back to load isn't that long and looks nothing like that.

Freddie The Bat:
ohyes, you must be a lot of fun at parties. :P

MadamLamprey:
[This message has been removed.]

Ravenswood:
Letting you off with a warning, MadamLamprey. I expect everyone to keep discussion civil and not resort to insults.

Carry on.

YoungMasterGracey:
Those are good points, ohyes, but I think you're missing the point on a couple of them. Obviously something supernatural and reality-bending is happening in these stories, which would mess with normal operating procedures and other elements. The "prop rooms" and the overlong loop for the buggies are part of that. The gist we're getting is that they only appear when someone dies in the parks and whetever is actually haunting the mansions is about. Everything else is speculation.

cacklemeyer:
There could have been more secruity cameras in the 70s too. Feels like nitpicking to me.

I noticed something on another readthrough, by the way: in the second story the author said specifically eight people had died "on Walt Disney World resort property." Maybe she's referring to eight cases where people were actually declared dead, or confirmed dead before they crossed the property line? It's a small thing, but maybe the narrator knows an exact number we don't. Or could be as in the dark as we are. Who knows! *doffs detective's cap*

YoungMasterGracey:
It's possible! It could be that these places appear every time there's a even a near-death experience, but only some doors appear. I think that the Man with the Cane and the Hatbox Ghost manifest whenever this happens, and if a person actually dies within the parks, that's when we get another prop door.

Freddie The Bat:
Cannot tell if we're understanding a hidden theme or drawing attention to the author's lack of research. XD

MadamLamprey:
Hey what about Tokyo and Paris? Both have a mansion and theres also Mystic manor even though that one isnt really a haunted mansion. Has anyone ever died in those parks? I want to know because I'm going to Disney Paris soon to see my uncle who works there and maybe I can investigate too! Also can someone please read my story and leave a review???

Freddie The Bat:
That's a good question, Lamprey. Did a little more morbid research (I think that's becoming my specialty) and, surprisingly, I couldn't find any reports of any fatal accidents at Tokyo Disneyland or DisneySea. Considering how long they've been around I'm impressed! Worst I found were couple of urban legends about child abductions and the usual stories of real ghosts in the Haunted Mansion there - objects seen on the ride that weren't there before, a ghostly woman standing at the end of a hallway, etc. Nothing spectacular.

Paris, on the other hand, is not so lucky. There's been three incidents that resulted in a death at the resort - that's still pretty small compared to DL and WDW!

cacklemeyer:
Yikes. Thanks again, Freddie. Based on that it's likely that nothing would appear under Tokyo's mansion. Paris, though... What do you think that would be like?

YoungMasterGracey:
For all we know, in these stories there's nothing beyond Disneyland and WDW's mansions. If you think about it - the real skeletons on Pirates of the Caribbean, the plane that went down in Florida before the park opened - those things give the idea that something macabre or tragic had already happened before the mansions were built. That doesn't apply to Tokyo and Paris.

cacklemeyer:
OK, but Walt once said that he wanted to make a place for wayward ghosts from all over the world when they built the Haunted Mansion. That was part of the story gimmick for the ride but what if, in these stories, the people who die in the parks get stuck there, but need to be kept away from places that would upset guests? Simple solution: build a haunted house attraction and then keep the haunts in there. Kill two birds with one stone. That would be an interesting angle.

Freddie The Bat:
Gotta love that diabolical Disney logic! Not a bad theory at all! You sure you didn't write these yourself, cackles? XD

MadamLamprey:
OMG that makes so much sense! I always knew the mansion was really haunted ever since I frist rode it when I was 4 and I wanted to meet all the ghosts! Hey do you think that happened in Paris too? I'd be really scared if I saw the Phantom walking around like the HB ghost and the man with the cane but if it was Melanie Id feel a lot better because shes so pretty and has nice green eyes like my dad!

YoungMasterGracey:
Uh, Lamprey you know we're just talking about creepypasta, right?

cacklemeyer, that is a pretty neat idea, but without a third story in this "saga" we'll never really know. I kind of like the ambiguity though, since it lead to this discussion.

MadamLamprey:
If its just a story then why are you guys spending so much time talking about it instead of reading my story?? I asked you a nicely! No ones left any comments on it or any of the other ones I posted and I know the other arent very good but I'm really proud of my bride story! Why cant you guys Read and talk about theries on mine????

Anyway their in the Library go read them please

Ravenswood:
Another strike, MadamLamprey. You're straying from the topic.

Freddie The Bat:
If you're monitoring this I'd like to know what your thoughts are, Ravenswood. Now that your namesake attraction has been brought up I figured you'd have more to say! :)

MadamLamprey:
[This message has been removed.]

MadamLamprey:
[This message has been removed.]

MadamLamprey:
[This message has been removed.]

MadamLamprey:
[This message has been removed.]

Ravenswood:
Spamming links will also not be tolerated. I hate to ban, but ban I have.

Freddie, I also gave them a read. I feel like you all might be overthinking them, but I won't rain on your parade. They're entertaining and so is this topic. Just keep it in the realm of discussing fiction and you're good.

Freddie The Bat:
It's OK boss. Lamprey was obnoxious but she just really appreciates Kingdom Hearts. I won't hold that against her. XD Plus we made it clear from the onset that we're just talking about pastas.

cacklemeyer:
Thanks again, Ravenswood.

Honestly I'm not sure how much more there is left to talk about. Unless someone writes a story about hidden tunnels under Phantom Manor I think we're out of material for solving the mystery. We'll never know what happened to Mike and Karen, who our respective narrators were, and why the HBG and the Man with the Cane do what they do; my theory is still that they appear when there's a death and then either guide or ferry the soul to the hidden places beneath the mansions, all to preserve the guest experience. In a way that makes the whole thing darker, imagining that all these poor souls are trapped down there in the limbo-space. Maybe they even get used for props, hence the labels on the doors? Who knows!

Either way, it does lend itself to a proper conspiracy discussion, even if it's not real.

ohyestheydo:
Playing catch up a bit, now that Lamprey's gone. It's about time. She was spamming other boards too. You want to talk about laughable stories, well...

But keeping on topic (thank you, Ravenswood), I don't think it's nitpicking at all to point out where things aren't realistic in a story. I just wanted to make the case that whoever wrote at least the 2nd story is likely not a real Cast Member, or at least not a very good one if there are so many little errors. I would simply advise the author to do more research and revise it but... Well, it's already out in the internet. Too late for that, especially now that I've seen a few readings of it on YouTube (and I don't really like those).

ghostLAMP:
BUMP!!!!!!!!!!

Hey you assholes thought you could keep me out but GUESS WHAT its me!! I made another account and I know ravenswood is going to be a douche again and try to ban me but it doesnt matter anymore. I made this just so I can come back and say that you all never gave me a chance so Im going to show you all wrong!!! Also youll never see me again anyway after this but thats fine because everythings going to be awesome from now on! Everyone else is scared of going into the prop rooms but not me!! Im going to learn the truth and when I do I wont tell any of you you think these stories are fake but I know better! Anyway you all suck and I dont care if I meet the Phantom or Melanie when I go because youll all be sad that you wont know the REAL story! SO THERE!!!!!!!!!

Ravenswood:
I'm shutting this thread down.
9


Show Notes:   
On this episode of the Scare Your Friends Podcast, my pals and I read the popular account describing the infamous jpeg image known as Smile.dog. Is this tale as terrifying as its reputation would indicate or is it just another mutt on the creepypasta wiki?     

Read along with us: http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Smile_Dog

SUBSCRIBE FOR MORE: https://www.youtube.com/c/SkillFleaCircus

THE SCARE YOUR FRIENDS PLAYLIST: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLlOBCWyKAWEtftew6OWVK51lbXiEkvcS6

Contact Info:
Email: skillflea@gmail.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Skill_Flea
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/skillflea

Credited Author is unknown

Artwork is by Beth Morton/ Knadire:
http://knadow-the-hechidna.deviantart.com/
Her Twitter: @Knadire

My Friends Featured Were: Dan, Dylan, William, and Nate
Dan and Dylan's Twitch: https://www.twitch.tv/d_and_d_superfuntime
10
Story Critique / Loop
« Last post by Cornerandchair on 09:22:36 PM 06/11/17 »
She stands in the bathroom of his apartment. She is uncomfortable and half undressed and regretting every moment at a rapidly increasing pace.
 
She looks at her face in the mirror.
Her hair is frazzled, her eyes are panicked.
 
Why did she do this? Why is she here? Why did she trust him?
 
Every fiber of her body is screaming to just run.
But she doesn't.
She can’t.
 
It's too late, too far, and too wet to run.
 
They were just going to hang out and talk, that was the plan. Why hadn't she realized how bad this would be when he offered a massage? When he pulled at her shirt? When he pulled off her pants?
 
Why was she such an idiot?
 
Now she had to live with this. With the pain. With the feeling of his hands on her skin.
 
She hates this. She hates her life. She hates herself. She hates him.
 
She walks over to the counter in the bathroom. It's messy, there's no sense of organization to it. Soap here, an empty food wrapper there, something she thought looked like a condom wrapper.
 
His razor.
 
With a trembling hand she traces its plastic handle. It looks cheap, and used. Maybe a little like her in that sense. She takes it in her hand and presses a finger to the blade.
 
A hiss escapes her.
 
It looks dull, but it’s still sharp.
 
Her finger slowly oozes blood.
And she thinks.
Why not just end this?
Why bother living with it at all?
 
So she shifts her hold on it and positions it over her wrist, and with a quick slash.
Her vision goes red with her own blood.
 
And then she comes to.
 
And she's standing in his bathroom again. Angry, desperate, and alone.
 
She walks to the counter again and takes the razor. She tests it on her skin. And then she leaves the bathroom.
 
Even in the dark she can see he’s facing away from her, his face dimly lit by his computer, playing a tv show long forgotten about.
 
She walks up and wraps her arms around his neck. A smile creeps across her face.
 
“Oh, hey sexy. Did you decide you want to pla-” With a quick slash…
Her vision goes red with his blood.
 
And then she comes to in his bathroom again. This time she's dressed. Her back is pressed on the door as he pounds and shouts through it.
 
She calls the police.
 
And then she's not there at all. She’s in her own room. Having declined his offer in the first place. She’a curled up in bed, listening to a podcast as she lulls to a peaceful sleep, unaware of what might’ve happened.
 
But none of those are what really happened.
 
Because here she sits, typing on her computer, her tablet, her phone. Different ways things could have gone different things she could have done.
 
She is trapped in a time loop.
 
And yet time is still moving around her.
 
But she doesn't realize it. She’s still stuck in his bathroom.
Angry, desperate, and alone.
Forever.
Pages: [1] 2 3 ... 10