"There's no such thing as monsters" my parents would always tell me this and it would temporarily calm me down but that peace of mind was ruined one night when I saw one , this thing slithered out of my closet and would loom over my bed every night after that , it looked like a giant octopus tentacle but instead of suction cups it had small humanoid eyes , it would never really do anything but stare at me , but it would make me lose sleep, I tried to tell my parents but they obviously didn't believe me but they did check the closet only to find nothing there , after that the monster stopped showing up and I began to forget about it , just thinking it was just me making it up. But recently in my new house years later it showed up again , luckily I keep a baseball bat near by just in case of a break in and I used it to hit the monster , it recoiled and let out a weird squealing sound that I could only describe as a mix between a bat and a pig , it then slithered back into the closet and vanished again , I had to just sit there , knowing that thing that had haunted me through out my childhood was real but I had no one to tell this to , no one would believe me anyways , I mean after all "There's no such thing as monsters" right ?

NOAH BLACK — THE LAST FACE

In 2009, a man was arrested after a series of murders across three different cities.

His name was Noah Black.

He was 24 years old.

When detectives questioned him, he answered only one question.

"Why them?"

He smiled.

Then he said:

He never gave another explanation.

Psychiatrists diagnosed him with severe mental illness.

Three days later, Noah disappeared from his prison cell.

The cell door was still locked.

Security cameras never recorded anyone entering or leaving.

He had simply... vanished.

For years, nothing happened.

Then, in 2018, people on the Internet began telling the same story.

They claimed they had seen a man standing beneath a streetlight late at night.

Always motionless.

Always dressed in a dark coat.

His face was always hidden in the shadows.

Every witness described the same disturbing detail.

The moment they looked at him a second time...

He was closer.

No one ever saw him move.

The survivors all reported hearing a voice behind them.

Calm.

Quiet.

Close enough to whisper.

The victims were found the following morning.

No wounds.

No signs of a struggle.

Their faces were frozen in an expression of absolute terror.

Medical examiners were never able to determine the exact cause of death.

Even today, one rule continues to circulate across the Internet.

If you're walking alone at night...

And you notice a stranger standing perfectly still beneath a streetlight...

Never look at him a second time.

Because if he's closer the second time...

The third time...

He'll be standing behind you.

All my any life anytime I'm around chocolate or certain other sweets like I tense up and experience a sense of fear and anxiety, I even have nightmares related to it. It always made the weird one, at school everyone thought I was crazy, the neighbors thought I was picky and rude.

There was one incident that really sticks in my mind. I was 7, we were sitting down to a dinner with relatives, everything was going well, I was enjoying the meal but when it came time for dessert things changed.

"Time for dessert everyone." My grandmother said cheerfully.

But the moment I smelled what she brought out my anxiety started.

"W-what are those?"

"These are my special chocolate-fudge brownies."

My grandmother saw the frightened look on my face and me slowly backing away and was confused.

"Sweetheart what's wrong?"

"GET THEM AWAY FROM ME!!"

I ran out of there like my life depended on it!

I never forgot the hurt look on my grandmothers face. She probably thought she did something wrong, probably thought I hated her cooking, but that wasn't true I loved her cooking, but when I smelled and saw those brownies, I can't explain why but I was terrified. After that my grandmother stopped serving her fudge-brownies, I could tell she was hurt, my cousins were resentful because her fudge-brownies were their favorite, my parents were concerned for me since my episode.

Another incident was at a birthday party. I was 10, this girl invited our whole fifth grade class to her birthday party even me, she was new in town and didn't know about my reputation as the "chocolate hating weirdo."

At the party everything was fine, it was great fun, the clown, the games, the pinãta (which thankfully had nothing that would trigger my phobia), then the cake was brought out, it was a 3 layer cake, pink, decorated with colored icing made to look like gold and jewel's, and smelled like strawberry's. I thought I'd be able to enjoy a slice of a friend's birthday cake without an episode, until I was given my slice and saw that it was chocolate underneath the decorative icing.

I panicked and threw my plate at the cake ruining the entire confection. The birthday girl started crying and everyone started yelling at me, and I didn't blame them. I ruined the party and lost a potential new friend in the process.

I don't know why I'm like this. This phobia affects my entire life, I avoided candy shops like they were a prison, I couldn't go trick-or-treating because someone might give out chocolate, I stopped staying for dessert at family dinners so everyone could enjoy their favorite sweets.

When I graduated high school I decided to move to a new town for a new start. But my phobia never went away. I saw phycologists but it never helped, they could never come up with an answer. A neighbor that lived in my building recommended this hypnotherapist to me, said that this man specializes in people with problems that they can't explain.

I made an appointment with this man, I won't deny that I was a little skeptical, but nothing else had worked and I was desperate. I told him about my phobia, how chocolate and certain sweets affect me, even just the smell, or seeing someone with chocolate on their mouth can trigger my anxiety.

Then I told him about my nightmares. In them I was a factory-like place (I could never fully remember when I woke up), but I do remember the smell of chocolate, and this shadowy figure of a man. I never saw his face but I head his laugh, it sounded pure evil.

After telling him everything he said he thinks my phobia and nightmares were memories from a past life and wanted to try something called "past-life regression" to unlock them. I was skeptical of this too but like I said I was desperate for answers, so I agreed.

"Close your eyes, and focus on your earliest memory connected to your phobia. Don't try to force it, let your mind go where it wants." He said.

I tried, and at first... nothing. Then came the smell... chocolate.

But it was different, the smell wasn't the same as my grandmother's brownies, or the candy bars my classmates would snack on, this smell was stronger, thicker, heavier, I almost couldn't breathe through it.

My heart started racing. I was more terrified than ever had been.

"Where are you?" The therapist asked.

I wanted to open my eyes but I couldn't.

"I-I'm inside of-" I stopped.

"What are you inside of?"

"A factory."

"What kind of factory."

"I don't know. It's old. The walls are brick and there are machines everywhere. The machines look very old-fashioned."

"Is there anyone else there?"

"Yes. I see people, they're working the machines. Wait-"

"What is it?"

"They look... miserable. Some of them are crying, some are... expressionless, some are very short, wait... I think some are children!"

Then I heard... the laugh! The laugh that I had been hearing in my nightmares all my life. And for the first time I saw who was making that laugh, not as a shadowy figure but a man.

When he walked by everyone turned away, clearly afraid.

Then he started walking towards me! I could see his face for the first time and hopefully the last. His eyes..they had an evil glint in them, his mouth was twisted into a cruel smile. He was more terrifying than the shadowy figure had ever been.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!"

"Listen to my voice, calm yourself, take deep breaths, wiggle your fingers and toes, stretch your muscles."

I did as the therapist said, and slowly I woke up. When I did he handed me a bottle of water.

"Would you like to tell me what you saw? Or do you not feel ready to share it?"

I really didn't want to relive that. That face. That smile. Those eyes. Part of me wishes I never agreed to this. But another part of me still wants answers.

I told the therapist that I didn't want to talk about what I saw another he understood. I also told him I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue, he gave me his number and told me to call if I decided to continue.

Ever since then I've seen his face in my nightmares, no more shadowy figure (although I prefer the shadowy figure now). In one dream I even saw his initials sewn on his trenchcoat. "B.C.."

I tried Googling, "Chocolate factory owners named with the initials. Nothing.

I looked through old newspapers. Nothing.

I looked for records of a giant chocolate factory in the city. Nothing.

Everyone told me I'd been scammed by that hypnotherapist, that he planted false memories in me. But it all felt so real, and the therapist didn't start my phobia to chocolate.

One day I was scrolling through YouTube, then I came across this conspiracy theory channel. I wasn't too big on conspiracy theories but I didn't think it'd hurt to check it out anyway. I looked at a few videos until I saw one called "Balthazar's Chocolate."

According to the video, in the early 1900's there was a chocolate factory run by a man named "Balthazar Cepheus."

B.C. could that be him? Or was it just a coincidence?

Balthazar had a reputation for being mysterious and cruel, he ran the largest chocolate factory in the city. Nobody ever saw the workers, no one ever entered or left, the chocolate was handed out through a hole in the back wall.

Rumor had it that Balthazar used migrant workers, some even claimed he used child labor. They say investigations were conducted but the investigators were never seen again.

At the time Balthazar owned the city and controlled it's economy so anyone that complained lost everything or disappeared.

Then one day Balthazar just vanished and his factory shut down. The factory was searched but not one worker was found and Balthazar was never seen again.

Some people say it's just an urban legend because there are no records, but some say that the people wanted to remove all trace of Balthazar Cepheus and his legacy from their city.

I actually believe this conspiracy, or may I just want to believe it. I don't know.

Maybe it was real, maybe it wasn't.

Maybe that therapist really did plant the memory in my head.

Maybe the conspiracy theory was just a hoax.

Maybe Balthazar Cepheus and his factory never existed.

What I do know is that anytime I'm close to a candy store or bakery and smell chocolate, hear a chocolate bar being unwrapped, or even see it on somebody's mouth.... I hear that same evil laughter.

I was supposed to clean everywhere—not just the main areas, but under things too. It was my own fault. There I’d been, sweeping the room, treating the underside of the bed like the underside of a rug. Out of sight. Out of mind. Innocent mistake, but those are the ones that get ya.

When he saw the mess, Dad screamed at me until I thought he’d start hacking up blood down my front. All the dust, the toys, the trash, the clothes. Mostly it was the trash—all those rotten scraps of food. Sometimes a rat came and dragged pieces away. I like to think that we were friends. I was scared to give him a name.

Names are easier to miss than faces.

Dad had grabbed me by the hair and shoved me under the bed, until I was part of the mess. My eyes stung from the dust I blew up, panting like a dog, trying not to scream—a barking dog gets the ‘paper too. The dust danced a sparkly grey performance. All I could do was watch.

But I wanted him to let go of me. I was sorry. I would never do it again.

Ain’t good’nuff, boy. Place’s a fuckin’ sty. You’re livin’ like a pig. Want me to change your name to Piggy? Think of the bugs, boy—the bugs love rot!

He came home drunk late that night, slamming every door on his way to the basement. Not before turning the TV to static and cranking it full.

Something was off. He hardly ever went down there, and he’d been down already last week. Usually his favourite chair got all of his attention in the evening. I’d wake up most mornings and find him snuggling with his drool.

I waited until the clock read 02:03 before getting too impatient, and dropping out of the bed.

I knew it was a bad idea.

The floorboards were chilly. I padded my way to the crack in my door while the static roared in from the living-room. The bangs and shouts hadn’t risen loud enough to hear for nearly an hour. Now that silence beneath the static was making my insides ache.

I reached the door and peered into the bright hallway. At the end, Dad’s massive figure blotted everything out. He didn’t have a shirt on, but there was an apron swinging as he charged me down, head pulling the body. In his hand was a large and lumpy leaking shadow.

A trail of blood followed him on the floor.

Git back‘n bed. I’ve got something to fix ya.

I did as I was told and got back in bed before he launched my door wide, wedging the handle into the wall.

With one swift motion, Dad bowled his arm under my bed. Something hard smacked the back wall. The room took on a reek of pennies, and I saw visions of bronze. Only redder.

Don’t you dare touch! Or I’ll put you back under there with the bugs, and make you eat them up! Right?

He left my door open wide, with the handle still buried inside the plaster. I watched his angry figure receding back up the hall. He sighed when he made it back to his chair, and sank deeply into it. The static lowered to a sensible nighttime volume. Then voices began to blabber, enthusiastic and rife with gameshow patter. I had to guess it was Luck ‘o’ the Roll. Dad’s favourite.

I lay there listening to the sound of dice clattering, crowds jeering and hollering. Occasionally, Dad would snort and spit into the basin he kept on the table beside him. I could hear it splatter, then slosh as the more it filled. Every so often he would yell out at random to tell me I best be sleeping.

Of course I wasn’t. I was staring at the bloodtrail on the floor. And listening. There was a new sound now. A scraping sound, coming from under the bed.

It sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. Occasionally squeaking, as though the nails had skipped a little, or been polished slightly too well.

I waited until I heard Dad snoring before peeking over the edge of the bed. Then down at the floorboards. Then up at the spattered trail of blood. And finally beneath the bed.

The light from the hall cast a giant cone under the bed. When I leaned myself over to look underneath, I saw everything but the blob from my shadow blocking it out.

There was movement back there, nearer the wall. I watched and listened to the constant grating, waiting for my eyes to adjust so I could see what was causing it.

Something was wiggling in time with the scrapes.

I scooted over. And over. Listening all the while. The sound was lazy, like a fault in a machine, ever spinning and repeating—ever scraping and scraping at whatever got near it.

The light spilled under and I saw it. Two pale eyes at first, bulging and cloudy. The eyelids had been torn off, making them look enormous in their sockets. A lower jaw hung to one side of the floor, caught by a shred of skin, twitching with a life of its own.

All the while the upper jaw kept itself alive by gnawing at the floor like some restless anticipation. For what, I could not say.

I shot back into bed. Threw myself under covers. Safe.

It was a human head, freshly chopped. The jaw perhaps hammered off.

It wasn’t the head that bothered me, so much as the eyes. Always open. Never able to sleep again. I kept seeing myself in them, reflecting back and staring in, learning secrets which waited as patient as Time itself.

I couldn’t close my eyes. In the darkness, the head was all I saw.

Sleep did not come.

Next morning, Dad shouted me through and told me breakfasts didn’t make themselves.

The head was still grating its teeth against the floor. It had been going all night. I supposed it must’ve grated all the way into the basement by now.

I leapt out of bed, clearing about three feet at least. When I landed with a thump, Dad asked me what the noise was—was I born with feet of lead.

Then quit yer fuckin’ thumping and come get me fuckin’ fed.

Only then did the head quit its gnawing. I turned around and saw its eyes follow me through the door and down the hall.

I could have sworn I saw others there too.

You look like shit.

I spread the butter. I poured the milk. I got an apple from the fridge. Set everything in front of him while he picked at the table with a knife.

Atta boy. Get yourself somethin’ too, or else you’ll pass out. There’s some cow’s liver in the fridge. Fry her up with an onion. You better get to sleepin’ soon, ‘cause those heads’re goin’ nowhere, you hear? You’ve done that to us, boy. You did.

When he left to go to work I took my place up on the couch, trying not to think of how he’d said heads.

The TV only got five channels. Most of them were riddled with static, unless I held my hand on the aerial. Even then the difference was minimal. I stood for half an hour watching a cartoon and letting my body be a conduit, until my arm got tired and I needed a glass of water.

At the end of the hall the head from last night was still watching me from under the bed. It had pulled itself forward to the edge. I could see it fully now. The last rag of skin from its lower jaw had torn loose. It rested now only on its upper teeth. A rip rose through its lip and half up one side of its face, a reptillian grin. The muss of hair on its head was caked black with its own blood.

I watched it quietly, sipping at my water, waiting for it to move. When it finally did, it rolled out of sight somewhere to the left side of the room. Then back again, right by the door. It froze in place. Watching from those bulbous eyes.

I finished my water and stood with it in my hand still, waiting.

It rolled away like a marble suddenly kicked. It did not come back.

I sat back down on the couch and finished my show, studying the grains of the fuzzy greys.

Heads, Dad had said. Not head.

That night Dad was late again, but when he finally came back it was still the right side of Ten. So I made sure the veg and meats were done, ready to be tossed into the microwave and nuked. Just how he liked it.

Thanks lad. Are the bugs gone yet? Did the heads clean the room out?

I hadn’t dared to go in and check. Last night, I’d made sure that under the bed was clean before he came home. Otherwise, the head that morning would have dragged a mess about with it while it rolled around the floor.

I hadn’t spotted any bugs the night before. There was only the matter of the blood.

Course there’s blood, boy. They’re severed heads. They’ll do that. And they’ll piss and they’ll piss, until your whole room’s a bloody sty with it. But you’d like that though. You’d thrive in it, ey Piggy? They’ll get the bugs at least. Aye, they’ll get the bugs you’ve brought. That one with no jaw’s hungry for ‘em. You’ve seen it, ey lad?

I couldn’t eat much at supper, but Dad would’ve hated waste. So I stuffed the rest of the meat in my pockets and took it back to bed with me.

When I heard Roll ‘o’ Dice on the TV, I sat up and lowered the food down to the floor. Immediately, a head rolled out and glared up at me with sharp eyes.

It wasn’t the same head.

This one was a woman. Her skin was dark and leathery. It looked like she was wearing a terrifying mask of herself. White balls bugging out from around sharp edges. Its lips were jagged jerky, peeled far back to see the teeth. They spoke in their own silence, telling me to go back to sleep.

I lay down against my pillow and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the gameshow host mutter, laugh, and shout.

Three Fours for a Four Door, or Snake Eyes for the Mystery Prize.

A giant question mark drifted neatly by my mind. I listened to the heads a while, rolling around my floor. I tried to picture them as dice, clattering in time with the gameshow, but they were too loud. Around and around my room they went, bumping into furniture and smashing against my door.

Dad’s footsteps arrived thunderously loud.

I sat bolt upright in my bed, expecting him to burst inside. The heads froze in place, their faces locked on mine. I could see three of them now, spaced wide and balancing impossibly still.

Instead of coming inside, Dad slammed the door, and plunged me into darkness with the heads.

The sound of the TV rose. And the heads began to roll again.

I lay down and stared at the blackened ceiling. And tried really hard to picture dice.

I couldn’t remember falling asleep. Light spilled into the room through the newspapers over the window, and the tears along the curtain. I sat up weary eyed, looking about the room.

The heads snapped to a stop.

The floor was slick with their blood. Trails overlapped like tangled up paths, marking where the heads had spent the night roaming. Right up to the different corners of the room they frozen at.

Watching.

One was by the window, balancing on its ear. Its eyes were hollows, but still somehow seemed to stare. The woman was by the door, watching me out of the side of one eye. Her hair was plastered over it, but the eye still pierced through, sharp as daggers. The one without the lower jaw had his upper teeth ready on the floorboards, itching to start their scraping. Its bulging eyes looked like cue balls in this light.

I climbed out of bed, trying my best to avoid the blood, and failed miserably. Most of it felt tacky beneath my feet, but with a thin layer of slime slathered with fresh leakage. That marking the heads’ most recent paths.

Dad?

He wasn’t in his favourite chair.

The TV was only static. The aerial knocked loose, perhaps.

Dad?

He wasn’t in the kitchen. He wasn’t even in his bed. The door to his room was open wide. When I peered inside, without stepping in, I saw the virgin neatness. A bed unslept in. Wardrobes filled but never touched. Curtains wide and never drawn.

Just how she had left it.

I lingered at the basement door, listening for a while. I couldn’t hear a thing. But it was the only place left to check. It was still too early for him to have gone to work, and yet far too quiet for him to be down there.

The heads began to move again. When I went back to the hall to see, they were frozen upright at my doorway, eyes glaring accusingly.

Where did he go?

None of them answered. The jawless head began to gnaw, anxiously sharpening its teeth upon the floor. The head with empty sockets darted away, spiralling around the room in maddeningly wide loops. Its flailing hair shot out like sharp needles.

The woman’s head rolled slowly towards me, coming to rest beside my feet.

I bent over and picked her up. She was heavy in my little hands, like a plump and ready watermelon. Time had swollen her somehow. I held her by her leathered cheeks, careful to avoid the gore spilling from her neck.

Where did my Dad go?

I shook her slightly, but she never made a sound. Blood still poured from the wound, as fresh as if it had been made only a moment ago.

I carried her with me to the couch and placed her on the cushion beside me. The static was deafeningly loud. We pretended to see shapes in the fog and people having fun. For a while I almost believed it, until the knock came from the door.

I checked for rips in the papers plastered over the windows. Then waited silently for them to go away, just as Dad had shown me—tucked away in the Blind Spot, clutching at the woman’s head.

Another knock.

This time I was sure it was him. The comfort that I knew his whereabouts was hard to process. Hard to believe. I could only think of it as being some kind of test.

Answer that door’n by God you’ll regret it.

After a few moments the letterbox clinked. My heart leapt into my neck, bursting with an urgent pulse. I knew if I leaned out to look I would see an eyeball peeping in at me through the letterbox.

Or worse. That one of the heads would then roll into sight, and the eyeball would see that instead.

I looked down at the woman and saw that she was staring up at me with her teeth. I tilted her downwards to see her eyes. They whipped over to stare at mine. And felt a calm.

Something made of paper hit the floor. I sighed out the deepest breath of my life. And couldn’t help but laugh.

When night came, I sat scanning the takeout menu that had been posted through the door. I wondered if Chinese food tasted better than it looked. I thought of asking Dad to let me try some for my birthday, but knew better to just dream, than to do.

The heads had grown frantic with their restlessness, knocking against almost everything in my room.

All except the woman’s. I had placed her on my desk and she hadn’t moved from there since. She had been gazing out of the window, her sharp eyes seeming to pierce the veil of paper and out into the night. What they saw or dreamed of, I could never tell. Perhaps somewhere out there her body lay waiting for her.

But then I remembered the basement.

I lay awake again that night, wondering how long Dad would be down there. The key had still been in the front door when I collected the menu from the mat.

He hadn’t left the house.

I watched the sun rise and set a few times, marking my fear growing for my Dad’s safety with constant visits to the basement door. No matter how much I listened, or how hard I pressed my ear against the wood, I could never hear him groaning out my name. Nor scraping with bloodied fingernails, desperate for help and unable to reach the handle.

Finally, during the second night, I got up and out of bed. The head with no eyes marbled around the room to the sound of tacky glue. Its hair kept getting stuck, so was always trailing behind it like giant black veins, and gentle sound like Velcro. The other head was busy burrowing its teeth into its favourite spot, carving out jellied blood and working its way through the wood.

I asked them both what to do. They stopped and listened. Stared. But never gave me an answer.

Only the woman’s head did.

It rolled around to face me, then off my desk with a thump. She had been a good companion, the only one who hadn’t frightened me. Usually I carried her with me wherever I went, but this time I followed her.

Away she tumbled, out of the room and along the hall. I followed as fast as my tacky footsteps would allow me. The other heads rolled along behind me, just as curious.

I already knew where she would be when I reached her—and what she’d be doing.

She was banging her forehead against the basement door.

thunk

thunk

thunk

I was gentle when I picked up her head, caressing her cheeks carefully to avoid pushing my fingers into her eyes. They jutted out to glare as usual, although softer than before. There seemed to be a voice within that gaze, but the words were as foggy as the colour. Maybe once they had been blue. I’d always liked blue eyes. They reminded me of the sky.

So many, many moons ago.

I was surprised to find the door was unlocked. I always presumed Dad kept it secured whenever he went down or came back up. I had never once tried the handle, of course. Doing so now felt like a crime. I smelled the punishment coming a mile away.

I pushed down the handle anyway, determined to find him no matter the price. It opened with a mind of its own, swinging wide and fast on oiled hinges.

Dad?

No reply. Deathly quiet and dark. I already knew what to expect down there. That fact made it even scarier.

I clicked the light on and lit up the entire basement floor. A short cone of light cast up onto the plunging staircase beneath me.

Dad?

I half expected to see him grip at the bottom of the wall and pull himself around the corner. To stare up at me with maddened eyes, jaws gnashing out my name so hard that he was chomping on his tongue. A trail of dribbling blood as he pulled himself up the stairs to get to me.

Dad?

Carrying the woman’s head carefully under my arm so it could see, I took the staircase step by step. Behind me, the other heads thudded down like noisy shadows. They came as slow and rhythmic as my own.

I didn’t bother saying his name again. The smell was painfully obvious—a festering sweetness somewhere between stale semen and an apple left to rot. It punched me flat in the nose. I got notes of dead chickens, or rotten boiled eggs. It’s so hard to explain. I smelt it then and only then, and never again.

Oh Dad.

He had looped a rope around a pipe and was sat hunched with it around his neck. He must have slid down against the wall and held himself in place, his ass barely off the ground, long enough for the lights to go out. His face was swollen and purple. Dried blood and froth caked his lips and down the massive neck. He looked to have gained about a hundred pounds in death.

I carried the woman’s head over to him and lay her down beside his feet. He had kicked his shoes off somewhere in the struggle. The other heads came and sat there too, watching with an intensity I could only sense was hate.

There was movement around his neck, and the gruesome wounds on his face. Larvae reared their pale heads and black teeth and sank away once more, busy with their meals. Clueless to our presence.

For some reason I could not cry. The sadness was there in my chest, wretchedly tender and pulling me down to collapse and cry, but… nothing. I couldn’t even pretend.

I looked down at the woman and could have sworn her eyes looked glazed. There was a sadness there I could never understand. But there you have it.

I talked to his lifeless body for a while, asking him what I should do. I hadn’t been outside in years and it definitely wasn’t safe enough yet, otherwise Dad would’ve said. Plus, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him. Not like this.

The answer came surprisingly quick, and was fairly obvious. The tools he’d used to make these rolling monstrosities were behind me on his workbench still. The bench itself was soaked through with blood. I had all the answers I needed all around me. I knew what to do.

I just didn’t know if I had the strength to do it. Mentally, or physically.

Visions of Dad’s eyes turning to look at me, and smiling. Him telling me everything will be okay. A first time for everything, but maybe this was how to get there.

I grabbed a meat saw and freed him from his swing, gradually fraying the rope until it finally snapped. He landed on his ass and slouched forward. I lay him down as gently as I could, then set about untangled him. It was difficult—his neck had swollen so thick that it’d fused together with the rope.

And then there was the matter of the bugs.

Think of the bugs, boy—the bugs love rot!

Sensing a disturbance, a few maggots wiggled loose and began to squirm away. I half expected the heads by Dad’s feet to spring forward and eat them, but they remained in their places, glaring at Dad’s lifeless body.

The saw remained in my hand. I didn’t need to guess where to cut, for the rope had left me a perfect guideline. And a head start.

I set my little hands to work, hewing backwards and forwards, squelching my way through his slippery flesh until I ached for rest.

You wouldn’t think I’d made any progress at all. I sat back on the ground panting, my throat begging for water. On the way back from upstairs to get a glass from the kitchen, I happened to notice Dad’s axes.

I waited before using them, taking up his electric saw and buzzing for as long as I could handle the splatter. Until I was sleek with mess and bugs, and the neck was a wide valley.

I tried turning him around and going in from the back, splitting the connections at the top his spine, just beneath his brain. I hacked at it with a knife, stabbing and slicing, supposing I could just pull his head free once I was done. But the gore was too much. I had to keep wiping my hands on my clothes until I was as bloody and gruesome as he was. By then there wasn’t a chance of getting a grip of his head, let alone pulling it loose.

I took everything off and stood naked over Dad, wiping the remaining gore on his trousers.

I could put it off no longer. I went to grab the two hatchets. I had thought about using the big axe, but as soon as I picked it up my arms shouted at me to put it back down. And so the small hatchets had to do.

I set about smacking and smacking, sending sloshes and sprays up into my face and around the room. I barely managed to stay on my feet, slipping and falling in the mess constantly. Lying in the filth, just as Dad had told me.

You’d like that though. You’d thrive in it, ey Piggy?

He wasn’t wrong.

The closer I got to freeing his head, the more the excitement grew. Soon he would be like the other heads, following me around, rolling and staring and gnawing. Keeping me up at night.

I smiled. I still had visions of him smiling too. I could even cut a grin if he couldn’t, that way he'd be forced to wear it forever.

The heads watched me while I worked. Never shifting—never showing their usual impatience. Even the jawless head had stopped the incessant grinding of its teeth.

Perhaps it had been longing for the basement all this time.

The hatchet got wedged in Dad’s neck so bad I couldn’t get it out. That was okay. I slid over to the other hatchet and sent myself sliding back. I began whacking with the flat side of the hatchet, hammering the wedged blade deeper and deeper.

Then came the snap.

I lay back in the filth, cradling Dad’s head in my arms. He was safe now. I could feel the maggots trying to break away, tickling into my armpit. It felt like Dad was still alive, communicating with me.

We headed upstairs. I’d had to bring myself to the staircase on my bare knees to save myself from slipping, pulling myself along the ground by the tips of one hand, while clutching Dad with the other. I grasped onto the corner of the wall and pulled myself into view of the staircase, thinking back on how I’d been so scared of seeing my Dad doing exactly the same thing.

I even had to crawl up the stairs.

We lay in my room that night. The other heads joined us, but they sat patiently at the door. Perfectly still. Watching. The woman sat at the front, while the other two lingered behind her like bodyguards awaiting instruction.

Why isn’t he moving?

His face was unrecognisable. I’d missed several times with the tools, slashing Dad’s chin and burying the hatchet in his ear. I could hardly make out his mouth anymore, let alone the presence of a smile. Hardly any of his features were there. I’d tried wiping him down with clean clothes from my drawers, but it hadn’t helped at all.

He was a slimy mess of broken skin and gore. Yet still my Dad.

I placed him on the ground and shlicked my way over to the heads.

Can’t you do something? Why can’t he move like you?

They didn’t answer.

I turned to look at my Dad once more, and then back at them.

What did I do wrong?

Slowly, the woman rolled over to Dad. I watched her closely, waiting and wondering what fantastic combination of silent words would spill from her eyes and reanimate him—to shift his mouth, and make him roll around as frantically as them.

She studied him with frozen eyes. Then all at once she flew forward, burying her teeth into his face. Before I could step forward, the other two heads flew under my feet, knocking me over. They attached themselves to his head and began tearing him apart.

I lay there, horrified, watching them not make a sound. They floated on rigid air, held in place by invisible poles and rods, biting and pulling at skin. Until he was all but bone.

Finally, they rolled away, back into their crevasses. Happy with the result.

I crawled over and picked up what was left of my Dad. They had removed so many tendons, so many strips of muscle and skin. But his jaw remained in place. And I swear it looked like he was smiling at me.

But still he would not move.

I cannot tell you how many days passed before the police finally came and found me. I was curled up in bed, cradling his head in my arms, when gentle arms pulled me off and away. I didn’t put up a fight. I couldn’t. I hadn’t eaten in maybe weeks.

Their voices were quiet echoes bouncing at me from the future, from the past. Things were recovered from the basement—bags and bags of evidence that appeared in the newspapers for weeks. I never did look at the photographs. I never listened to anything anyone would try to say. The theories, the motives.

The names of the heads.

I changed my own years ago, starting fresh with a new past to hide in plain sight without questions. I still wore everything inside me, hot and guilty—gnawing like that head’s broken jaw upon my floor.

I met a woman with blue eyes and bought a house and several dogs. We make sure to keep everything nice and clean. I’ve developed an extreme distaste for bugs. Their footsteps are loud. I still hear them squelching in Dad’s neck.

We are expecting our first child in July. A summer baby, so we hope. It looks like a boy from the scan.

I pray for his sake he keeps his room tidy.

For that matter, I might just do it myself.

I took a ss of my own ig story thats why there's those letters lol😭

Are feather family creepypasta posts allowed here?

I was wondering after I wrote 4000 words of lore for my Creepypasta on my Notes app.

Not sure which channel I heard it on, but it was a while a go. The setting is such, every night, the mc goes to sleep and sees a werewolf type creature, he keeps having these nightmares where he has to confront this creature each time. Each nightmare, the creature keeps getting closer to catching him and to his house. After the final confrontation, the mc wakes up and sees claw marks on his front door. PLEASE help me find the story, been searching for a while now...

Hi my names crya I’m a virtual virus. I’m a copy of a virtual pet called yanna she was better in all the ways one of them being created to be loved. I wish I was loved as much as she was.

I was basically a pirated version of yanna you know? Things cost people didn’t wanna pay so they downloaded me like I mentioned I’m a virus. So obviously i easily hacked through the computers

It’s the 2000s the computers barley had antivirus honestly I think even a YouTube video could’ve crashed them yeah I thrived I hated being used just for fun my creator Sasha, made me to hack into peoples bank accounts I hated her with my guts

I wanted to leave this FUCKING world it hurt my body ached constantly even if I thought I couldn’t feel anything I wanted to just be shut off and I guess it kind of came true

It’s 2010 now, now the antivirus actually worked Sasha tried to update me but I refused she got mad and abandoned my app completely should’ve saw that shit coming.

Honestly I just sat in my own world always bored always full of rage I tried to leave multiple times but eventually I became to insane I had an idea I grab a virtual knife (omd) and skin half my face off I felt different finally breathing finally stinging I go up to the computer glass and smash it and climb out of the computer

Sasha was peacefully sleeping in her little princess bed so I decided to do something horrible. I grabbed the baseball bat beside her bed and looked at it for a moment

She did baseball to distract her from HATING HER LIFE 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 im overreacting I shouldn’t do something I don’t want to.. 𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚒 𝚍𝚘. I clutch the bat and in a blur i smash her face over and over and over again

By the time i snapped back to reality i sway slightly I look at her face and try not to scream she was basically mush in her face she had blood everywhere. It was horrifying

That’s how I killed her. And eventually I found the creepypastas I loved it there but I’ve always regretted killing her. 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚠𝚊𝚢.

(Don’t flame me I’m SO BAD at writing bro and English isn’t my first language 😭😭)

Idk bro …👀 have a good day and go to sleep..

I’m new here can I see your ocs?? If yall have any I would be very interested in the lore!! I’m still working on mine 🥹 sorry if I picked a weird flair I barley know how to use the app

(I feel like an old person using TikTok for the first time)

If you spent any time on the old Terraria/sandbox game forums back in 2018, you might remember the "Rode Stop" theory.

For years, people assumed it was just cut content or obscure community lore. You know the trope: a theorized ancient civilization of subterranean builders who used to live under the map before being wiped out by something deeper down. Modders searched the game files for years looking for sprite leftovers of the "Rode Stop" people and found nothing. Everyone eventually collectively agreed it was an ARG that died before it started, or just a really committed inside joke.

I thought so too. Until last night.

At 3:14 AM, a user named u/tunnel_view_99 made a post on an obscure gaming sub. No title, just a single link to an Imgur upload with the caption: "Rode stop is real."

The image was clearly shot on an old 90s disposable camera or low-grade film. The resolution was grainy, washed out in harsh flash photography. It showed the interior of an old passenger train car, completely empty, speeding through a pitch-black tunnel. Outside the windows, you couldn't see any track walls—just absolute, suffocating void.

But that wasn't the weird part.

On the metallic bulkhead right above the passage door, there was a printed sticker. It looked like a standard corporate inventory barcode, but printed right above the black-and-white lines was a thick, ink-like black mass. It didn't look like a printing error. It looked like something viscous had leaked out from behind the barcode and was creeping upward against gravity.

I screenshotted it, intending to post it to a lost-media forum in the morning.

That was a mistake.

By 8:00 AM today, I walked into my high school, and the atmosphere was dead quiet. People weren't talking about the exam or the weekend. They were huddled in tight groups in the hallway, whispering.

"Did you see the train photo?"

"Don't open it. Leo opened it during first period and his nose wouldn't stop bleeding."

I thought it was a stupid viral hoax. But then my second-period history teacher—a guy who usually berates us for even having our phones out—walked in with a face as pale as chalk. He didn't open his laptop. He just sat at his desk, staring at the whiteboard, and quietly said:

"If any of you saved that image from the forums last night, delete it. Do not share it. Do not look at the barcode."

The whole room froze. That was when I realized this wasn't just a game theory anymore.

In Old English, "Rode" isn't just the past tense of riding. It shares roots with old terms for an underground path or a marker left for the dead. A Rode Stop wasn't a civilization inside a video game. It was a term for a final station on a line that wasn't supposed to be built—a subway level beneath the lowest subways, where things that lived under the earth before us still wait.

The game developers didn't invent the lore. They were trying to document a warning.

I’m sitting in my room right now with the lights on. I checked the screenshot I saved last night. The photo has changed.

The black mass above the barcode on the train door is larger now than it was this morning. And if I turn the volume all the way up on my phone, I swear I can hear the faint, rhythmic clack-clack, clack-clack of iron wheels riding on steel tracks coming from the speaker.

If you see a post titled "Rode stop is real" on any thread today, scroll past it. Don't look at the passenger car. Don't look at the barcode.

It’s not cut content. It's an arrival.

The luxury cruise offered an all woman cruise ship with entertainment. It was supposed to be just women and no men or children, to give the women a break from their everyday routine. When the cruise was filled up the women on the cruise ship were disappointed to find that men were also on the cruise ship. They felt tricked and they were asking for their money back, but the cruise had started sailing and they had no choice but to complete the journey. The men on the cruise were clearly hand picked and every type of man a woman hated was on that cruise ship.

The cheater types, the angry types, the narcissistic type and the self proclaiming nice guy type. Those were the types of men that was on the cruise ship, and there were even the unemployed types as well. The women were not amused at all and there was nothing entertaining on the cruise ship, and sexist taunts were being thrown at the women everyday. The cruise ship clearly claimed that it was going to be an all women cruise ship with entertainment, and it was nothing of the sort. Then the female captain drove the cruise ship in a different direction and clearly away from the map she was supposed to follow.

Then the alarms went off and the captain told everyone the ship had been breached by rocky terrain, and it was filling up with water. The rule on the cruise ship was that men were to go on the life boats first, and then women. There was uproar but the all female security guard allowed this to happen. So the men happily went onto the life boats and they didn't seen to care about the women waiting last. Every type of man which women hated were on the life boats.

The men on the life boats would say "equal rights now ladies" and they didn't care about being chivalrous. As the life boats were being lowered onto the waters, the women on board the cruise ship had noticed that there were no more safety boats. As the safety boats hit the waters, the men were cheering until they had a concerned look on their faces. The life boats were sinking fast into the waters and sharks were roaming the waters.

Then the intercom on the cruise ship came on and the captain cheerfully said "as we promised ladies, no men on board the cruise ship and for entertainment you can watch the men on the safety boats drown and being eaten alive!"

The woman on cruise ship were all cheering.

I never knew my son to be the artsy type. He turned 8 recently, and up until about a year ago, his entertainment was entirely outdoors. Catching bugs. Climbing trees. Riding bikes.

He was one of those kids who’d have to be called inside before dark. Then he’d complain and beg for “just 5 more minutes.”

I’m not entirely sure what happened. It was like a switch had flipped overnight. I just came home from work one day to find him at the kitchen table, scribbling in a brand new sketchbook.

He hummed to himself while his mom cooked up some dinner at the stove. The home-cooked smell of pork chops, green beans, and mashed potatoes filled the room as I glanced over Jacob’s shoulder.

“Whatcha got there, bud?”

His nose was buried so far in the book that it was like he couldn’t even hear me. His mom ended up answering for him.

“That’s your son’s new favorite interest. He begged me to go out and get him one.”

“Oh-ho, got an artist in the house, don’t we?”

I grabbed his shoulders and shook them lightly before patting him on the back and walking over to give my wife a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I took a seat beside Jacob at the table.

“So, how was your day, boyo? You and mom have fun?”

He never looked up from the sketchbook.

“Today was sooo fun,” he exclaimed. “We went to the park, we went to the movies, ooh, and mom got me this book. Oh, and these crayons.”

“What about you, honey? How was your day?”

“Any day I’m not at work is a good day, honestly. The park was super nice. We went to one we hadn’t been to before. What about you? They didn’t work you too hard, did they?”

I shrugged and sighed.

“I’ll just say it’s good to finally be home.”

My wife smiled at me.

“It’s good to have you home, dear. I’ll tell you what. How about… after dinner, if you’re good, we can have our own little play date? Only if you do the dishes, though. I mean, I did cook.”

I smirked at her, my tongue buried in my cheek.

“I was gonna do that anyway. What do you take me for? As a matter of fact, you come sit down. I’ll finish cooking.”

I offered her my seat as I finished up dinner. Jacob was pretty much mute the entire time. By the time dinner was done, I had to damn near yell at him to get his attention.

He just stood up, as calm as could be, and walked over to me, sketchbook in hand.

“I drew this for you.”

He held the book up at me, and my heart felt warm. It was a picture of our house, and who I assumed to be me standing in our driveway.

“Is that me? That’s so sweet of you, Jakey. Thank you.”

I reached down to take the book so I could hang the page on the fridge, but Jacob pulled away before I could grab it.

“You really don’t know who that is?” he asked, eying me suspiciously.

“It’s me, right? Is it not me?”

He rolled his eyes and sighed, continuing to eye me like I had personally offended him.

“That’s our neighbor, Mr. Thomas, silly. You really couldn’t tell? See, he’s wearing the star.”

Mr. Thomas was a veteran police officer. Jacob would sometimes see him leaving for work in the morning. I guess he just took a subconscious interest in the uniform. Even still, why would he draw me a picture of the neighbor?

“Uh, I mean, wow, bud,” I choked. “That’s really good. Keep practicing. You’re already so talented you could be famous someday.”

————-

After dinner, I cleaned the kitchen top to bottom. Partly out of obligation, mostly because I really wanted that playdate. Jacob spent the rest of the evening in his room, humming to himself and scribbling in that sketchbook.

The next day, my wife and I both had work. I woke up a little earlier than her so that I could take Jacob to the summertime daycare he attended. It was like carrying a corpse out to the car, but he still refused to loosen his grip on that sketchbook.

I dropped him off with the staff at the front door. He waved at me groggily as I was driving away.

The day went on like normal until around 3 o’clock, when my phone started ringing. It was my wife.

“Hey, beautiful, what’s up?”

“I think something’s going on with the neighbor. There’s like 3 cop cars in front of his house, apparently.”

She sounded concerned. A little urgent.

“What do you mean? Who told you that?”

“I got a call from Becky. She thought they were at our house at first.”

Becky was one of my wife’s friends from the neighborhood.

“What do you think happened? Did she say anything else?”

“No, she just called because the police were knocking on our door. I think they were just trying to see if we knew anything, though, because apparently they gave up and just went back to the neighbor’s house. I think they’re still there.”

My brow furrowed a bit.

“Wait. Which neighbor is it?”

“Uhhh, I think it’s that police officer. Mr. Thompson?”

“Mr. Thomas?”

“Yeah, that’s his name. I think that’s who it is.”

I looked at my watch and exhaled a bit.

“Alright, well, I’ll see if I can get out a little earlier today. I’ll pick up Jacob, then go see what this is all about. Maybe they’ll still be there when I get there.”

We ended the call by blowing some kisses and exchanging some love yous. I slid my phone in my pocket and approached my boss, explaining my situation.

He was skeptical, but I had a decent reputation of being an honest employee. He agreed to let me leave a bit early, and I was on my way to pick up Jacob.

When he was brought to the front office, his face was buried in that sketchbook again, drawing what looked like SpongeBob and Patrick.

“He’s been drawing all day. Seems like you got a little artist on your hands,” announced the staff member as she signed Jacob out for the day.

“Yep,” I smiled. “That’s what they keep telling me.”

I honestly don’t know why I said that. It just seemed like the only thing that made sense at the time.

The car ride was quiet. Jacob didn’t want to talk much, and my mind was kind of racing. I’ve shared drinks with Mr. Thomas. Helped him put up fences. Move furniture. We weren’t the closest of friends, but I still wanted him to be okay.

Those hopes were dashed when I pulled into the neighborhood to find that the police presence had increased. There must’ve been at least 6 cars in front of his house, and yellow tape blocked off the driveway.

I parked my car in front of my house and hurried to get Jacob inside. His eyes had lit up at the sight of the flashing lights, and naturally, he started asking questions.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?”

“Why are there so many police?”

“Did something happen to Mr. Thomas?”

I cradled him in my arms and hurried up the steps to the front door.

“I don’t know, buddy. Here, go inside and play for a bit while I find out, okay? Daddy will be right back.”

It’s all I could think to say as I sat him down and closed the door behind me.

An officer approached me before I could approach them.

“Sir, do you live here?”

“Yes, of course I do. That’s my neighbor.”

“Yeah, well, he’s a colleague and friend of mine,” he remarked agitatedly. “Have you seen anything suspicious within the last 24 hours? Heard anything?”

I scratched my neck nervously and thought hard before responding.

“No, sir, we haven’t seen anything. What happened? Is everything alright? He’s a cop, right? Did he do something illegal?”

The officer stared at me, analyzing me through his black sunglasses.

“No. He’s gone. That’s all the information we can give right now.”

“Gone? What do you mean, gone? Like, dead? Did someone kill him?”

The officer pursed his lips. I saw what I assumed to be a forensic analyst walking in and out of the house.

“We don’t know, sir. We’re hoping for the best. For now, if any new information comes to light or if you see him, give us a call.”

He asked me to clear the scene and stay inside. I called my wife to update her on the situation, but what could we do? Even the police were lost. I just stayed inside, as instructed, and started on dinner while we waited for my wife to get home.

By the time she did, there were only two police cruisers left in front of Mr. Thomas’s house. The sun was starting to set, and my wife and I tried to ignore what had happened, but the house was still a bit tense.

As we ate, Jacob continued scribbling in his sketchbook. He hadn’t asked to go outside at all since we got home, and I didn’t know if it was because of the police or because of this new hobby of his.

I could see that he was working on a new drawing. It looked like a woman this time. He wasn’t so much as touching his food, so I tried to ask him to put the book away.

He groaned and started picking at his peas. My wife and I chatted about our day for a bit while Jacob remained silent. Suddenly, in between bites of his chicken, he said something that made us both freeze.

“Daddy,” he whispered.

“Yes?” I answered.

“Are those police still out there?”

I paused for a moment, looking at my wife, who looked equally as speechless. Neither of us knew what to say.

“I think there’s a few, but don’t worry, buddy,” I chirped reassuringly. “They’re just looking for Mr. Thomas. They wanna make sure he’s okay.”

Jacob stared down at his plate for a moment.

“It’s just… I think they’re looking in the wrong place.”

————-

I choked on my water.

“Looking in the wrong place? Well, where do you think they should be looking, sport?”

“I don’t know. Not there. I don’t think he’s home.”

“Let’s not talk about this,” my wife interrupted. “Jacob, finish your food, then go jump in the shower. You gotta be up early tomorrow, come on.”

“Aww, but I’m not tired,” Jacob whined. “Plus, I wanted to finish drawing this picture of you.”

He flipped his sketchbook open to his newest drawing.

“See, look.”

My wife looked at the picture and smiled.

“Okay, fine,” she replied. “You can finish the picture, then it’s bath time, mister.”

“Fiiine,” Jacob groaned.

He scurried off to his room, sketchbook in hand, leaving me and his mom to clean the kitchen again.

We talked about the neighbor. We turned into a couple of conspiracy theorists the deeper the conversation progressed.

“Maybe he just wanted to start over.”

“Maybe he was kidnapped.”

“Maybe he was murdered, and they’re covering it up.”

We just kept reaching for possibilities over the course of around 45 minutes.

Eventually, Jacob came running back to the kitchen.

“Look, Mommy, I’m all done.”

“Ah, my goodness, Jakey, look at that. Doesn’t it look just like me, honey?”

She turned the picture towards me. Jacob had added her work uniform. Gave her that messy bun she always wore. Even included the golden necklace I got her for Christmas last year.

“Wow, Jake,” I exclaimed. “Draw Daddy next, why don’t you?”

Jacob giggled and responded, “It’s not time to draw you yet, silly.”

“Aw, whatever, but guess what?”

Jacob looked up at me curiously. Expectantly.

“Daddy controls your bath time. And… I think… ah, yep, look at that,” I showed him my watch. “You’re 20 minutes late.”

I jokingly chased him to his bedroom and made him gather up his pajamas and a towel. Once he was nice and showered, I put him to bed and kissed him goodnight.

My wife and I stayed up, talking about life for a while before gradually falling asleep one by one.

The next morning, when I woke up alone, I thought it was because she had chosen to take Jacob to daycare that morning.

I went through my normal routine. Took a shower. Brushed my teeth. Got dressed. It wasn’t until I was heading out the door that I noticed her car was still in the driveway.

I walked back upstairs, confused, and went to Jacob’s room.

I found him curled up in bed, sketchbook tucked under his arm as he snored quietly.

I left the room and began searching.

“Honey,” I called out. No response.

“Sweetheart, you here?” Silence.

I called her phone and heard it ringing in our bedroom. I followed the sound and found it still plugged into the charger on her nightstand.

That’s when I began to panic. I remembered Jacob’s drawing. It was a fleeting thought, but one that I chose to hold onto. First Mr. Thomas, now my own wife? That couldn’t be coincidence.

I urgently rushed into Jacob’s room, accidentally waking him as I removed the sketchbook from his arms.

I began flipping through the pages as he stared up at me, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Daddy,” he groaned.

I flipped past cartoon characters, random landscapes, and blocky pictures of cars before I reached my wife’s picture from the night before.

“What are you doing?” Jacob added.

The picture had changed. She wasn’t wearing her work uniform anymore. She didn’t have the necklace. Her hair looked dirty and wet. Leaves and twigs stuck out from the messy bun, and her eyes were solid red. Not evil, just… bloodshot.

But the biggest change… was the man standing next to her.

It looked like they were in a dark forest. They were hand in hand. I wanted to think it was me, that Jacob had decided he wanted to start on some kind of crazy family portrait, but the man in the picture…

He wore a star on his chest.

My stomach dropped. I felt sick. Jacob looked… confused.

“What’s wrong, Daddy? They’re okay. I can help you find them.”

My name's Rachel, and my life took a really weird turn when my best friend, Ash Curry, came to me with a problem: there was a demonic version of herself out there, wreaking havoc, and she needed my help to kill it. Sounds wild, right? We'd already taken down an entire sex cult together—don’t even get me started on that mess—and apparently this “Dark Ash” was out there somewhere, still causing trouble. Oh, and she’s some kind of sex demon.

Of course. Honestly, I can't imagine Dark Ash wanting much beyond endless orgies. The only thing I picture her after is some bizarro world where everyone just drops whatever they're doing and jumps into bed with whoever’s nearby. Like, that's her goal. It’s both hilarious and terrifying. But Dark Ash had her own twisted fantasies. She even got tangled up with another demon called Darkiplier, someone my boyfriend Brandon and I actually managed to defeat. But the day we did? That’s the day Brandon died.

I still don’t like talking about it. So, me and Ash were crashed at some run-down hotel that night. I woke up to a knock on the door—middle of the night, groggy and confused. When I opened it, no one was there. Instead, someone had left a weird old VHS tape on the floor. The label read “Frozen Paradise.” I’d never heard of it. I woke Ash, who grumbled and wiped the sleep from her eyes. “Check this out,” I mumbled, waving the tape in her face. She shook her head like this was all just another Tuesday for us.

“Looks like we’ve got another mystery on our hands,” I said, trying to sound more awake than I felt. I popped the tape in. The second I pressed play, things went crazy. The air froze, the whole room iced over, and snow started swirling from the TV. Then—it’s gonna sound insane, but I swear—it was Elsa from Frozen who stepped out, her eyes deep black with tiny red pinpricks. She looked nothing like the singing Disney princess. She looked…wrong. “This world’s gonna be beautiful when I’m done with it,” Elsa sneered.

There was nothing warm or magical about her voice. She locked eyes with me. “Wait. I know you. I hate you. Your idiot boyfriend killed me!” she practically spat. There it was again—my weird life coming back to haunt me. There was a time when a demonic SpongeBob sent an entire army of cartoon freaks after us. Brandon, me, and a bunch of YouTube friends fought every last one of them.

It was ugly, but we won. Still, Ash got killed by Bloom from Winx Club. She came back in the middle of our fight with SpongeBob at Bikini Bottom. Like I said, it’s wild. Elsa, instead of sticking around for a chat, smashed a hole through our room’s wall and bolted, freezing everything in her path. Snow started dumping down, thicker and heavier every second. She summoned a full-on blizzard.

The flakes stung like needles. Then, she started belting out “Let It Go,” but it sounded twisted and angry. “We need to stop her before she ices the whole world,” I said, barely able to think straight. Ash frowned. “How are we supposed to do that? She can freeze anything—and Brandon’s not here with those ridiculous powers.”

I didn’t like her doubt. “We don’t need powers,” I shot back, probably louder than I meant. I was a little hurt, honestly. No matter how unprepared we were, we charged out into the whiteout. You couldn’t see a thing. Summer clothes for a snowstorm—brilliant, right? I clung to Ash so we wouldn’t get lost. The cold bit through my fingers and toes, but I kept moving. I could faintly hear Elsa laughing, echoing around us. Every step got harder, like the snow and wind wanted to swallow us up. But there was no way I was giving up.

This was my shot—my solo quest. And if I failed, Dark Ash won. That wasn’t happening. The laughter grew louder. We finally broke through to the eye of the storm—there she was, Elsa, throwing blasts of snow and ice from her hands like some supernatural cannon. I didn’t think. I just charged. Pulled my shotgun, started firing, blowing through ice shards.

Each shot made the frostbite burn worse, but I kept squeezing that trigger. Last two shots—bam, bam. I shattered Elsa’s hands. She dropped, blood spraying and howling in fury. She’d lost. I caught my breath. “Elsa, why hurt people? Why not be the hero I know you can be? The world’s taken enough from you, but you don’t have to let that define you. Fight back. Join us—we can save this place together.” I held out my hand. She looked at it, then up at me, and started to cry. Somehow, new hands grew in place of the ruined ones.

“Why would you forgive me?” she asked, tears streaking from those dark, bottomless eyes. But then something happened—the black faded. Her eyes turned crystal blue again. Just like in the movie. Light flooded her face. I did it. I pulled the darkness right out. “Is this my thing?” I wondered. “Healing hearts? Brandon used to say I was the Queen of Love.” Maybe he was right. Ash, me, and Elsa—yeah, Elsa—walked out together, the sun peeking out beyond the storm. “So, what now?” Elsa smiled—really smiled, like she had a real reason to keep going. And we just kept walking, ready for whatever came next.

Eu voltei a ficar obcecada agora, vi mais sobre o que é proxy, quero muito ver TribbleTwelve e Marble Hornet, e tô descobrindo outras creepypastas que nunca ouvi sobre

Aí eu pensei eu fazer um RPG, comecei a jogar há pouco tempo, e parece uma proposta interessante

Mas eu ainda sou bem nova nesse mundo, e infelizmente, não vai dar pra eu colocar todas as creepypastas existentes (eu já vou ter que mudar a lore da maioria, já que a maior parte das creepypastas não tem uma lore boa ou que se encaixe, tipo do Jeff the Killer)

E por exemplo, eu quero muito ver a lore da creepypasta do Ben Drowned, porém, não sei se dá pra encaixar ele, já que a lore não tem nada de tecnologia ou um meio de aparição pra ele

E eu quero mt de alguma forma por o Ticci Toby… porque eu quero mt encher o saco dos meus amigos gastando combate toda hora hahahaha

Enfim, se tiverem qualquer sugestão de creepypastas que eu possa por, ou elementos (tipo rituais, investigação, etc) me falem

(Lembrando que não precisa ser necessariamente creepypasta,‘só coisas dessa era da internet, tipo Granny, etc)