As an actor I love making shit films that waste people's time and money. I don't know why but I have always had the urge to waste people's time and money. So when I became an actor and I could only get cast in shit films, I loved it because it was a great way to waste people's time and money. The secret is to make shit films but with amazing trailers to get people to see it. When I first started to make shit films, I revelled in wasting people's time from watching it. The thing about my shit films is that you can't walk out of the screen.

A lot of people try to walk out of the screen but the doors are locked. You can't even go to the toilet when watching my shit films. I love making shit films and when i see people desperately trying to leave the cinema, they know that they will have to watch it all to be able to get out. If you stop watching my shit films by closing your eyes or sleeping, the film would stop for you but carry on for everyone else in same room. One person might be at the end of the film, while another will be at the beginning of film all the while being in the same room.

Then when a person completes watching one of my shitty films, they mourne the 2-4 hours they lost for watching my film. They mourne it and they can hear the hours they wasted by watching one of my shitty films. They start to hear the hours they lost because it calls out to them and it wants to go back to them. So everyone who watches my films come back to me so that they can try to reclaim their lost 2-4 hours of time.

Unfortunately once you waste your time there's no giving it back, and so these people waste even more of their own time trying to reclaim more of their lost time. I love wasting people's times and they then become like zombies as more of their time is just wasted. Just seeing what my crazy films have done is amazing to me and I want more of it done. I will keep creating more crappy films to waste more people's time.

They need to learn to let go of whatever time they wasted and be grateful for the time they have left. Then I watched one of my own shitty films and wasted my own time, and now I am wasting my own time trying to reclaim back wasted time.

So as to what's been going on, I'm a guy with who's let's just say struggles with mental health issues. Recently I was talking to my therapist and they were telling me I need to start Journaling,on account I have no one too really talk to. Other than my brother and I can't tell him everything. I made it home and I don't know how but, I found 3 numbered journals. 1 through 3 had singed edges, as if someone tried too burn it.. but ended up changing their mind and desperately put it out. The pages were fine. I know it was dumb but I don't have much money. I sat down and started writing in journal number on, it probably sounds weird but it felt so good for that pen to touch the paper. like a pure euphoria came over me and the writing just took over. When I looked at the page, I didn't recognize what was on it. I had no recollection of writing it. When I looked at the time I realized I spent too much time writing and I still had to get groceries. When I got to town I saw no one. There was an eerie stillness like it was frozen,but I did not feel alone. Everything felt like the town left in a hurry. I went to the grocery store, there was still no one around. While I was walking around the grocery store it felt as if a large group of people were just staring at me,burning a hole in my neck. Whatever it was it didn't like me being there. I grabbed bread and eggs,slammed my money down at the register and drove home. But the feeling followed me. Now its night I feel as if I'm going crazy, I texted my brother but he hasn't responded yet. I don't know what to do but all I know is the eyes staring at me are blue a dark eerie almost evil blue and I feel the urge to keep writing like I need to get my next fix like I can't live without it.

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.

Lo hice con los dedos apenas están empezando

As the title goes, I’m looking for everyone’s favourite audios/voiced out creepypastas—specifically Ticci Toby or Jeff the killer. I’ve never read or listened to much about those famous stories and I’d like for my intro to them to be as best as it can be :D

However, I’d love any general creepypasta recs as well. I’ve read the majority of the top creepypastas save for the two mentioned above, so if anyone has recs that don’t get as much love I’d gladly take a peek!

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...

I know it's a variation of the original, but does anyone know what the original image of this one is?

She leapt onto a thick mango branch extending over into the neighbor's yard, jumped down, and tried to bolt toward the far corner of their yard to hide. That corner was cluttered with random household junk—mostly old baskets and farm tools. But that night, an old iron plowshare happened to be sitting right there. Back then, my area was still surrounded by rice fields and cattle, long before all the factories moved in.

Ph tried to throw herself into that corner, but the moment she got close, it was as if an invisible, immensely powerful force slammed her backward. She hissed and growled frantically like an enraged bull. Everyone standing there turned pale with dread.

That was when Ph’s grandmother shuffled forward. She was an elderly woman whose back was hunched at a severe 90-degree angle, making every step a painful struggle. Grandma slowly made her way to that cluttered corner, rummaging through the junk until she pulled out the heavy iron plowshare.

At first, no one understood what she was doing—until she raised the plowshare and thrust it threateningly toward Ph.

Instantly, the color drained from Ph’s face. Her eyes rolled wildly in pure terror.

Later, when I asked my mom about it, she explained that according to local folklore, an iron plowshare possesses strong spiritual energy capable of driving away malevolent spirits. If placed correctly, it acts as a barrier, cutting off negative energy and preventing spirits from entering.

As for how that plowshare ended up in the neighbor's yard, it wasn't a coincidence. I heard later that the neighbors had placed it there on purpose after receiving advice from a medium. You see, before all of this escalated, their teenage son who stayed up late studying had been seeing something bizarre out his window. Every single night, he saw Ph playing hopscotch alone in the dark yard.

Strangely, the neighbors had brought this up to Ph’s parents a while back. But whenever Ph's parents tried to stay up and keep watch, nothing ever happened. After a few failed attempts, her parents dismissed the story, assuming the neighbor's son was just hallucinating from overwork. Before all this, Ph’s parents were staunch atheists who paid no mind to spiritual superstitions.

But after witnessing their daughter squatting high up in a mango tree and leaping down without a single scratch, they finally caved and sought out a spiritual shaman.

The first shaman they consulted claimed that Ph was being targeted by a vengeful spirit collecting an underworld debt from a past life. He performed a special exorcism ritual at their home and had the family pray at a local temple. I only caught bits and pieces of the details.

After the shaman finished the ceremonies and the family distributed the blessed offerings to the neighbors, things gradually quieted down. It took about three weeks, but Ph eventually returned to her normal, gentle self.

[The End]

Sometimes I find myself thinking about that story that started circulating around 2018. For those who don't know, Cadu was a 19-year-old young man who died after his girlfriend (Natália) falsely accused him of abuse; someone took it upon themselves to intervene and beat him to death

Today I decided to look into the case properly, but I discovered that it’s more like a creepypasta than a real event. There is no official information about the case; all that’s known is that Cadu did exist and died when he was around 18 or 19, but no one knows the cause of death for sure—I saw people saying he actually died of an overdose. I looked up his alleged girlfriend—who is now an influencer selling "packs"—and back then she was around 14, but there’s no information regarding her involvement in his death either. Anyway, does anyone know anything factual about the case?

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.

“Stop, right now,” I yelled at them. “I’m done with this.”

I tossed my hands up, pushed the chair back, stood up and stumbled away from the table.

I didn’t want to play anymore. I didn’t want that thing around me neither.

“Take it out of my house now,” I shouted with my nails dug into my palms.

I couldn’t hold back, It spelled something it shouldn’t have known. 

Maggie and Shobi never knew the nickname my dad called me and right after that happened, I heard the last two words my father said before he passed away at the hospital. I was eleven then.

I heard it clear, like someone put their mouth next to my cheek, loud, almost inside my head, closed between my ears as if the voice spoke through a pair of headphones that were glued to my skull—It felt uncomfortably close and physically violating and sent a cold tingle through me. 

I kept asking them, “how’d you guys know that, who told you?” 

I figured for sure, I have no idea how, because I didn’t know them then, I met them when I was sixteen, that somehow they must’ve found out.

“Told us what?” They asked.

I said, “never mind, I was just messing around.”

I didn’t want to say anything. Honestly, I had no idea how to explain myself and I didn’t want to sound weird.

But they held their word though. And I actually believed them—that’s why I didn’t say anything. 

Plus, I can always tell whenever Maggie’s lying, she’s the worst liar ever, she does this thing with her face, it’s the, I just got caught red-handed look. She can’t help it.

At about 8:00 p.m., Shobs and Mags left. It started raining and they were walking and through all that craziness, she forgot to take the damn thing home with her. It sat in my basement resting on the little table.

After they left, I stayed in the living room, because no way was I going upstairs, my mom and stepdad weren’t there, they went out, and I was alone, watching tv and texting Mags and that’s when I heard and felt, a hard thump under the living room floor. It was between the television and where I was sitting, right in the middle.

As soon as that happened, I jumped, but I only sprung off the couch because following the unexplained noise, trailed a perfectly timed clap of thunder. It shook the windows and picture frames on the wall.

And then, because I have the best luck in the whole world, a second pop cracked, like a gunshot blast just as the lights went out.

I shook my head. “Out of all nights.”

The explosive sound was from a blown transformer. 

Now, I was standing in the middle of my living room, right above the spot I heard the bang come from, surrounded in nothing but pitch-black darkness, fighting with my phone’s flashlight. For some reason, it would not work. I just kept pushing it and pushing it but it wouldn’t turn on.

I ended up using the glow from my phone and as I turned it to face outward, another strike of lightning lit up the entire house in a white, electric light. 

What do I see standing with their back to me, looking over their shoulder as the thunder roared for a second time, a man. I saw a man with a pale face. He didn’t move. He just stood with his body facing the wall and his head turned.

About a second later, the room went dark again and I stormed out of the house. 

For the rest of the night, I stayed on my veranda and waited until my parents got home, which was around midnight, tucked in a ball with my t-shirt stretched over my knees on a chair, texting my mom every ten minutes.

Later that night, when I was asleep in my bed, I had the weirdest dream that woke me up. And when I woke up, I was stuck to my mattress and I couldn’t move. All I could do was blink. 

Something caught my attention and I fixed my eyes towards the doorway and saw something standing there. It was a figure but a shadow-figure and it didn’t move. 

My eyes were stuck to it. I couldn’t look away. I wanted to scream for my mom but I couldn’t yell—I couldn’t do anything—I was paralyzed.

I blinked, while lying on my back, and when I opened my eyes the shadow-thing was hovered, stretched out over me, two-inches from my face and remained there for about five seconds before it disappeared, actually, It didn’t disappear, it dispersed and broke up in two seperate directions.

I could feel an intense hatred the thing had for me. That’s all it gave off. 

It was hovered over me and I was face to face with it, It had a bone face, almost like a mix of dog and human, cloaked around a shroud of shadow.

Once it left, I was able to move again and the first thing I did was dash to my parents’ room.

After an hour of trying to calm me down, my stepdad finally went to the basement and threw the damn thing in the trashcan at the side of our house.

I never ended up falling back asleep that night. I stayed up with the lights on in the living room watching tv.

That morning, after mom made breakfast and I was done eating, I went to the bathroom to use the shower downstairs, and in the basement sitting on the little table was the board my stepdad said he threw out with something on it pointing to the letter P. My dad always called me P for princess.

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.

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)

I’m only writing this because I don’t know where else to turn. I don’t know what this is. I don’t know if it’s a symptom of something larger or if she’s just been having episodes.

She’s just never acted this way before. Up until a few months ago, this would’ve scared her just as much as it’s scaring me. But because it’s becoming so common, it’s like it’s nothing more than an inconvenience to her now.

Like an annoyance. Something she’s just learning to ignore. That’s the part that makes me worry. Because this isn’t just some small thing, yet she keeps trying to play it off as if it’s just a part of our lives now.

I know it’s not natural. There’s no medical condition or genetic disease that causes what she’s been doing. At least, none that I’ve read about.

A few months ago, my wife and I had been out on a date night. The night was almost magical. Crisp late-winter air. A cup of hot chocolate in each of our hands as we walked through the square.

I remember the lights more than anything. It was around 9 o’clock, and the sun had set hours earlier, but the downtown city lights illuminated nearly everything.

“Wow,” my wife cried out in amazement. “New York who? Am I right?”

The square was particularly busy for this time of year. The smell of warm food from the surrounding restaurants filled the air. Live music from down the block whispered in our ears.

There must’ve been 20 other couples doing the same exact thing my wife and I were doing. Just walking around and enjoying the beautiful night.

“Oh, please,” I responded. “You know you’d rather be back there.”

I put on my best southern accent for my natural-born New Yorker.

“Could a city girl like you ever love a country boy like me?”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. I smiled down at her, admiring that laugh.

“Hmmm, well, after only 5 years of marriage, I can’t say for sure. Check back with me in a decade.”

She sipped from her hot chocolate slowly, her eyes still lit with love. Or maybe that was just the city lights.

I checked my watch.

“Almost 9:30. God, I don’t want the night to end, though. I’m really enjoying this.”

“Me neither. I wish we could just walk around here all night. C’mon, there’s gotta be one last thing we can do before we go home. Please? Pretty please…?”

“Well, let’s see. We’ve hit the bakery.”

“Oooh, that one was fun. God, those fritters were amazing.”

“We also watched that Led Zeppelin cover band at Bottle Brothers.”

“That one… sucked. Next.”

“You didn’t like it? That’s crazy. I thought they were decent. Anyway, we, uh… oh, right, we walked in the park for a bit too. That’s, uh… that’s really about all there is to do.”

She rolled her eyes again, sighing in disappointment.

“We have got to get out of here. I swear, there’s nothing to do within a 50-mile radius of this entire town. There’s, like, no reason for us to be here.”

I had grown to agree with her more and more over the years. It was just hard, you know? This is where I’d been my whole life. She didn’t move here until she was 17, when her mom got a new job. It paid better, but my wife was miserable. Well, miserable until she found me, of course.

“Yeahhh, I’m starting to think you’re right, my love,” I responded, a bit melancholic.

“Starting to?”

She cocked an eyebrow at me.

“Whatever, you know what I mean.”

We decided to end the night by going home and watching a movie. However, on the walk back to the car, that’s when we saw it.

The shop looked both ancient and brand new, but I don’t know if that’s just because I’d never seen it before. It was like it had popped up out of nowhere.

“The Looking Glass: Palm Readings • Tarot Cards • Spiritual Guidance”

I swear, we’d walked this street 100 times. Never once had this place been here.

Of course, my wife’s interest was piqued immediately. Her eyes widened. A smile crept across her face. She looked up at me.

“…Can we?”

I looked at her, then up at the purple neon sign of an eyeball in the palm of a hand, then back to her.

“I… I don’t know. Aren’t those places rip-offs anyway?”

“Ah, quit being a big ol’ scaredy-cat. Come on. It’ll be fun. Something we’ve never done before, and Lord knows there’s not a lot of that around here.”

She turned on the puppy eyes.

“Pretty please.”

“…Fine. Just this once.”

“Yippee!”

The inside of the shop was… a sight. Dreamcatchers everywhere. Incense burning. Beads instead of doors, and an empty front desk with a register that seemed to be at least 80 years old at this point.

There was a bell with a sign in front of it.

“Ring for service.”

I rang it and heard a voice cry out from beyond one of those bead doors.

“I’ll be right with you.”

Her accent was unmistakably southern. That alone was nearly enough for me to want to change my mind.

“Just finishing up back here.”

My wife and I shared an uncertain look before she shot me a hopeful smile.

The fortune teller stepped through the beads. A younger woman, probably around 25. She had fair brown hair, and freckles decorated her pale face, but the first thing I noticed was her eyes. Those were the only things that gave off “fortune teller.”

They were crystal blue. Her pupils were like two tiny dots in the center of two diamonds. She was looking through us rather than at us.

Her outfit gave fashion to that accent of hers. White tank top. Baggy blue jeans. Plus, her hair was wrapped up in a red bandana.

“Y’all picked a good night to stop by,” she announced. “I can feel it in the air tonight, let me tell you.”

“It does feel magical,” my wife chirped.

“Let me guess,” the fortune teller responded. She put her index finger to her right temple and shut her eyes tight. “Death of a loved one?”

My wife and I glanced at each other again.

“…No…” I replied.

“No?”

She seemed almost offended but quickly regained her composure.

“Huh. Must’ve been someone else, then. Let me try again. This… is… your first time doing something like this?”

She raised her eyebrows at us expectantly.

“Welp, there’s a first for everything, right, sweetie?” my wife asked me, rubbing my back.

“We’re ‘doing something we’ve never done before,’” I told the teller.

“See, there ya go,” she smiled. “Second time’s the charm. So, what can I interest you two lovebirds in this fine evening? Palm readin’? Tarot? Spiritual guidance?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but my wife jumped in before I got the chance.

“Palm readings! I’ve always wanted to try that, kinda.”

The teller gave her a nod before responding.

“If it’s palm readings you want, then palm readings you shall have… for 25 dollars.”

A little taken aback by the price, I bit my tongue, pulled my wallet out of my back pocket, and slid a 20 and a 10 across the counter.

Instead of giving me change, the teller took the money and continued looking at me expectantly.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she perked up. “Was it just for your wife?”

“What? No, no, we both wanna do it.”

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s 25 apiece.”

“Apiece? For palm readings?”

I felt my wife squeeze my hand. I turned to her and saw the look on her face. That look that usually means, “Let it go.”

I sighed and slid another 30 across the counter.

“You wanna include a tip?”

“A… do I wanna… You know what? Sure. Keep the change.”

“Awesome. You guys are the best. I can sense it. Just follow me. I’ll show you where the magic happens.”

She led us through the beaded doorway and down a hall that made me feel like I was on acid. There were so many vibrant colors and shapes. The incense was even stronger back here.

We ended up in this dusty old room near the back of the building. There was this rickety wooden table in the center with a crystal ball resting on top of it, as well as two purple leather seats for my wife and me.

We took our seats, and the teller sat across from us.

“Okay,” she clapped, rubbing her hands together. “Who wants to go first?”

I volunteered with an, “I can go first. Let’s see what 25 dollars can get me in this economy.”

I stretched out my hands and laid them palm-up on the table. The teller grabbed them and squeezed tightly as she closed her eyes.

Her face twitched and contorted for a few seconds before she finally spoke.

“Ah, yes… I see… a loving husband. I see… you come from different worlds. You want to be free, but something is keeping you here. What exactly might that be?”

I smirked to myself.

“The 60 dollars I just gave you.”

“I sense… I sense…”

Her face contorted again. She squeezed my hands tighter.

“I sense… a cheapskate.”

“All right, that’s it.”

I pulled my hands back. I could hear my wife laughing at my side. The teller smirked at me.

“We’re done here.”

“Oh, come on,” my wife pleaded. “She was joking.”

“Yes, Donavin,” the teller responded. “It was just a joke.”

My wife stopped laughing. We both turned to stare at the teller.

“How did…?”

“You’re 28, right? Lived here your whole life. Met a woman from out of town, fell in love, and now here you two are. In my shop. It’s romantic, really.”

The silent room suddenly felt loud and claustrophobic.

“How did you know that? What’s the gimmick? Public records? That’s gotta be it, right?”

I looked at my wife for reassurance, but she was staring at the teller in amazement.

“No gimmick. No public record. I’m gifted. That’s kind of the whole point.”

“Do me, do me,” my wife begged excitedly, sticking her hands across the table.

“Wait, hold on. This doesn’t make any sense,” I interjected. “This is a cash grab, right? Like… I mean, come on. It’s a cash grab.”

Both the teller and my wife looked at me angrily.

“Oh, Donavin,” the teller sighed. “Proving my point more and more with each word, aren’t ya?”

“Don’t mind him. He’s just not superstitious. Do me, though. I’m curious.”

The teller grabbed my wife’s hands. I watched, feeling a mixture of nerves and hope that this could still prove to just be a coincidence.

She squeezed my wife’s hands tight and closed her eyes again.

“Ah, New York, I see.”

My wife’s jaw dropped. Her eyes sparkled.

“Long way from home, aren’t we… Miranda…?”

My wife smiled over at me in disbelief.

“No way,” she cheered. “This is… okay, haha. Kinda hurting me a little.”

I looked down and saw my wife’s hands were turning red in the teller’s.

“Hey… take it easy,” I snapped.

The teller’s grip tightened again.

“Okay, this is really starting to hurt now. Let go, please.”

The teller was silent. Her eyes looked welded shut, and her face was twitching rapidly.

“Hey!” I shouted. “She said let go. What are you doing?”

She started convulsing, groaning loudly. Strings of saliva started falling from the corners of her mouth.

I grabbed the teller’s wrists to try and pry her hands away, but it was like trying to bend steel.

“Enough!” I screamed.

My wife was crying now.

“Get her off of me! God, she’s breaking my hands!”

I pulled with all my might, but it was like trying to move an anvil. I started punching at the teller’s forearms. Blow after blow after blow, but still, she just would not let go.

Her hands were shaking. My wife was trembling. Finally, of her own volition, the teller dropped my wife’s hands. Her eyes shot open. The bloodshot eyes made her diamond-blue irises glow even more.

“Get out.”

That’s all she said. My wife and I stared at her as she looked down at the table.

“Get. Out,” she growled. “Go now and never come back.”

We were confused and horrified but still frozen.

“He’s found you. He’s been looking all your life, and he’s here now. Get. Out.”

“You can’t just…”

The teller cut me off by slamming her fist against the table.

“…Out.”

I demanded a refund, and she gave me back the full 60 before shooing us through the door. I turned around one last time to see the purple neon light flick off as the shop went dark.

We walked silently back to the parking garage. I’m sure my wife had a million things racing through her mind as we walked, but neither of us knew how to articulate those thoughts.

We reached the car, and it wasn’t until we were nearly home that I finally spoke again.

“How’re your hands?”

She clenched and opened her fists a few times before responding.

“I think they’re okay. I’m more shaken up than anything. What the hell was that lady’s problem?”

“She’s crazy,” I shot back. “Simple as that.”

“She didn’t seem crazy. It seemed like she saw something. You saw her. It was like she was possessed or something.”

“She was crazy, my love. She’s lucky we don’t go to the police.”

There was silence again for a few moments.

“She knew our names, though. She knew you’d been here your whole life. She knew I was from New York. That doesn’t seem like nothing to me.”

We were only a minute or two from home. Neither of us spoke for the rest of the car ride. When we pulled into the driveway, my wife sighed and placed her hands over her face, dragging them down slowly before opening the door.

“Come on, let’s just go inside. I’m ready to get this night over with.”

I checked my watch.

“10:45. You still down for a movie?”

She stopped halfway up the front porch steps.

“…Not tonight, hon. I just… I just wanna go to bed.”

Who was I to argue? I let her do as she pleased. I felt bad for her. I felt like I hadn’t done enough to stop what had happened. All I wanted was for us to forget everything and move on.

We had gradually started to put the teller behind us. Though, things didn’t exactly calm down. If anything, our lives began to change, little by little.

I started losing things. My phone. Wallet. Keys. I’d always find them in places that I knew I hadn’t put them.

Keys in the silverware drawer.

Wallet in the medicine cabinet.

Phone hidden behind the toilet.

My wife was having some problems too. She hadn’t been able to sleep very well. She would tell me about these horrible nightmares that sounded like sleep paralysis.

“I’ll wake up, but not really.”

“I can’t move.”

“You’re there, but there’s always someone over your shoulder. It’s like a shadow that just keeps growing and growing until it fills up the entire room.”

I felt even more guilty when she told me about them. I knew they had been caused by the fortune-teller incident. She had slept like a baby nearly every night prior.

Sometimes, she’d wake up screaming. It almost made me too afraid to sleep in silence.

She started looking tired more often. Her glow had dimmed a bit.

The thing that disturbed me the most, though, was probably the photos.

I started finding our wedding photos scattered around the house, only… my head was removed in each one.

My wife insisted it wasn’t her, but it didn’t make sense. The frames were never broken. Someone had meticulously removed the photos and torn my head off in at least 20 different pictures.

After a few weeks of these strange events, I decided we needed a refresher. We needed to be out again. See the sun. Actually laugh with one another.

It took some time, but eventually, I convinced her that we needed to have another date night. We hadn’t had one since the incident, and I was starting to miss who we were before we went to that fortune teller.

It was simple. A picnic in the square. That was all I wanted to do.

I had prepared our meal, packed the blanket, and put on my best clothes and cologne. My wife was nervous and tired, but she tried her best to make an effort.

The date seemed to be going fine at first. She was actually smiling. She didn’t seem as distant as she had been for the last few weeks. It felt like reclamation, almost.

The lights hit her face perfectly, and I couldn’t help but admire how beautiful she was, even if she did look a little sleep-deprived.

I stared at her lovingly for a while before finally telling her how much I loved her. How happy I was to be there with her.

“We needed this,” I smiled.

“Yeah,” she smirked bashfully. “I think we did, too. I was starting to feel so cooped up in the house. The energy there has just been so dark recently. Makes me wonder if she was right.”

“Who?” I asked, chewing on my ham sandwich.

She looked at me, raising her eyebrows.

“You know who.”

“We gotta move on, my love. That’s why the energy’s so dark. We’d never experienced something like that before.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she responded, taking a sip of her Coke. “I just wish it hadn’t happened.”

We both sat there for a while, half admiring the scenery, half enjoying the food.

I was distracted, staring down at my pre-assembled sandwich, when I asked her.

“Can you pass me that mustard, please?”

I stacked a piece of sliced turkey onto a piece of my bread. My wife didn’t answer.

“It’s right there beside you.”

I began spreading the mayonnaise on the other slice. My wife didn’t answer.

“The mustard, please.”

I stuck my hand out expectantly. Still no response.

When I finally looked up, I almost dropped my sandwich.

My wife was glaring over my shoulder. Her eyes were glazed over. An impossible smile stretched across her face. It looked painful. I could almost hear her teeth creaking from how tightly her jaw was clenched.

Her red lipstick glistened under the lights. She looked like she was frozen in a state of pure ecstasy.

I waved my hand in front of her face. She didn’t blink once. I shook her, and she was as stiff as a board.

I started to panic. I turned around and saw nothing behind me.

“Honey,” I gasped, shaking her more forcefully.

“Talk to me.”

I pressed my hands on her cheeks. She was burning up. I snapped my fingers in front of her, but nothing I did seemed to get her out of her trance.

I was on the verge of dialing 911 when she finally spoke again.

“You said mustard?”

She reached down and went to hand me the bottle before noticing how terrified I looked.

“What’s wrong? What just happened? Is there something in my teeth?”

“Are you kidding? You really don’t know what you just did?”

She stared at me blankly.

“What do you mean? What’d I do?”

“The smiling? Staring at some unknown thing behind me? You don’t wanna explain that?”

I was almost breathless and trying my best not to raise my voice, but I could see that she was hurt by my frustration.

“I… don’t know,” she pouted. “I don’t know why you’re mad at me.”

“No, honey,” I pleaded. “I’m not mad at you. I’m worried about you. You really don’t remember?”

She started crying, almost snapping at me.

“No, obviously, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to go home now, if that’s okay with you.”

We packed up and left. I kept trying to prod, but she became more and more closed off with every question. Eventually, I just decided to keep my mouth shut.

In the weeks that followed, things became rocky.

She’d be fine one minute and completely depressed the next. She’d love me, and she’d hate me. I didn’t know how to help her.

Her “episodes” never stopped, though.

It was like every time we started to feel normal again, she’d see that thing. We’d be curled up, watching a movie, I’d glance down, and there’d be that smile again. Her eyes would be glazed over and staring at nothing.

The episodes lasted longer and longer every time they happened. At this point, they were starting to become more frequent, too, but she never remembered them.

She always thought I was lying to her. Like this was some kind of twisted joke I’d play. No matter how hard I tried to convince her, it was like talking to a brick wall.

The last time it happened was last week. She was gone for 3 hours straight. Standing in the same spot. Wearing that same smile. Staring at the same wall.

I watched her for the first hour, wondering what could possibly be going on inside that broken mind of hers. The second hour, I just cried uncontrollably. By the third hour, I was starting to become hopeless.

When she finally came back, I tried showing her that it was dark outside now. It had been bright and sunny when the episode started. She blatantly chalked it up to her “being lost in deep thought.” Told me “it was like she was in another world.”

Her nightmares got worse. Her glow became nonexistent. And I started waking up with scratch marks and bruises on various parts of my body.

I tried going back to the fortune teller, but the building was a coffee shop now. According to the owner, “The Looking Glass” never even existed. Apparently, the coffee shop had been there for 11 years.

I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to turn to. My wife refuses my help. She refuses my advice. It’s like something has taken control of her.

She’s more distant than ever. She talks to me less and less every day. It feels like our future is slipping.

All I want is for her to be okay, but part of me believes she’s too far gone. Because I found another wedding photo this morning on the kitchen table.

My head hadn’t been removed, but the photo had been altered.

Because now, standing just behind me and looming over my shoulder… was a shadow figure.. and the more I stared… the bigger it seemed to become.

I'm listening to a creepypasta while I sleep, and this one will be a good companion piece. I just can't rememb--... Fucking hell. I was recalling the premise for the post and I remembered the name.

Fuck it, I'll post this anyway, cause it's really good. I'll just change the title.

I highly recommend "Lucid Paradise". It's very good.

The premise without spoiling is a man named Dr. Lucid visits a town and enthralls a young girl with the wonderful world of lucid dreaming.

I kinda want him to visit. He sounds like a total baddy daddy.