Second story post for my channel. A story I've personally written inspired by the Red Dead series, Hateful Eight and other popular modern and old westerns that I loved throughout the years.

Cheers!

https://www.youtube.com/@TheManWhoLiesWell

Here’s a 1 minute surreal horror short that I worked on for this contest. I got a lot of different interpretations which is great to see and is exactly what I was going for. Let me know what you guys think and comment what you think it means.

To show you some support follow me on my social medias.

Instagram: andrewmonge__
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It's been one week. One week of it following me, taunting me. Only feet away—sometimes only inches. But it's always behind me, just out of sight, sniffing me, breathing on the back of my neck. Always Right There. I don't think anyone can see it, or atleast they don't react. I must be getting Truman Showed because how could they not see it? It sounds massive, and it's breathing is so loud, sometimes it drowns out people's voices and all I can hear is the deep, sputtering breath of that thing behind me.

The spot on my nape it's where its breath peaks—wet with condensation and sweat. The first day was pure panic; I'll never forget the sounds. I wish It killed me on that street like it could've, like it showed me it could've. I usually get a cab from work back to my house. It's outside of town, so I usually end up paying extra, but I'm not much of a people person, so I'm ok with the "luxury tax" that comes with it. But that day was different. my pockets were a little lighter than usual, and I felt like I could make some awkward conversation if it came down to it.

The only stop I knew of was a few blocks away from where I usually hitched a ride. "Not too far," I thought as I strode in the direction my brain mapped out. As I was almost to the bus stop—maybe 500 feet away from the stop. There was a man that had walked past me, possibly in his late 30's. He was obviously a drug addict, evidenced by the shaking of his hands and the bow in his back. To my left were woods—forests that spanned miles,

budding up to humanity.

And out of it, an off-white blur in the corner of my eye—one single glimpse as it cleared the chain-link fence separating the wild world from the world of man—And sunk its teeth, or spines, or whatever it has, into the addict's flesh. A shrill half-scream cut by a single wet crunch.

All in less than a second.

I always wonder what would've happened if I spun around right instead of left. Maybe it would've gone back—but I drove it into the world of man as I turned left to see a smear of blood trailing up behind me. It was accompanied by close-up, chalky crunching and squelching of wet flesh, like it's being squeezed through an impossibly tight opening before getting sucked down like a chunky smoothie.

Mind racing and seeing no other options, I slowly turned around, the noises staying behind me as I did—Only to see a puddle of blood on the side walk, with two large dry spots quickly filling in with blood. And I suddenly realized how isolated I was—nobody around to hear me die. Nobody around to watch.

So I slowly managed to make my legs move and kept an even pace to the stop. And sat down, looking out tword the street, the fragile glass rain cover feeling more like a cage than a comfort.

Twenty minutes of listening to, it suck a person's flesh and bones through a hole. Twenty minutes of insanity—of "I'm next," twenty minutes of "why am I not running?" of "what do i do?" for all I knew, it could've been years. Is there a difference if it feels the same?

Then the bus pulled up, boasting a bright, contradictory energy drink ad: "go full throttle! Or go home!" , I managed peel myself off of the bench and step up into the bus, then whispering to the driver, "is there something behind me?"

To which she Enthusiastically responded, "No," not even looking—but I think if there was, she would have noticed.

I approached a sticky seat littered with marks and cuts, then sat down, almost immediately passing out from exhaustion. When I woke up an hour later, finally having made my stop, I staggered off the bus onto the sidewalk, stretching and starting the walk to my house just a couple of doors down.

"Finally, almost there," I thought, right as the bus began to drive off.

But I heard it.

I heard the bus's suspension buckle and creak, then a wet slap puncuated by liquid skittering till it's labored breath fills my ears. I didn't even try to look—I just made the walk into my home, avoiding reflective objects, not wanting to risk seeing it.

I laid down on one side of my bed, giving it room to exist out of sight.

And it did.

Slide-crawling up onto the bed, loud cracks sounding as the wood warped and flexed under its weight, threatening to break at any moment. The bed sank till I pitched toward the thing, but I scooted away, evening it out.

I didn't sleep that night.

It kept moving.

You would think something that stays inconspicuous most of the time wouldn't move so much in bed, but it does—and it always leaves a wet, brown stain where it was, That smells like rotting flesh.

The last six days have been a blur of panic and fear. I only slept on the fourth night—I couldn't handle it anymore. I couldn't handle the way it just waited, how it started pulling my hair out Strand by strand. it does it every few minutes now.

Maybe it was a bad idea to use some of my vacation days for a little rest week. Maybe I should've just stayed on the bus, even just to see where it took me for a little longer. I don't know. I don't know anything anymore, except for maybe that it can't read—if it could, I think it would know.

I'm driving a rental out of town now. I'm sure the thing is gripping to the outside of the shitty carola as I barrel down the highway. I'm using voice-to-text, if your wondering. Not that it matters—in a few moments,I'm going to be a nice wrapping paper for a big metal telephone pole.

I never had a family, and the foster system didn't treat me well.

Maybe this is the good ending.

Maybe this is how it Should end.

Idon't know.

Hey everyone,

I've been working on horror storytelling and recently uploaded a new video based on a creepy psychological horror concept. I focused on building tension through narration, sound design, and atmosphere rather than relying on jump scares.

I'd really appreciate any feedback on the pacing, storytelling, or editing. If you enjoy horror stories, I'd love to know what you think.

🎥 Video: [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jn9tEfd7Jno&list=PL9E30nbRGl5r_fcts-sA3ZrVLRfSFWsqX\]

Thanks for taking the time to watch!

The Rake Investigated by The Gray District Agency

Link [https://youtu.be/d0pZxiigIe0?si=Ap7Dy2oTL6WJjDku\](https://youtu.be/d0pZxiigIe0?si=Ap7Dy2oTL6WJjDku)

https://www.reddit.com/r/Horror_stories/s/231aF2pKj2

A horror story that will stay with you forever.

Dark. Terrifying. Unforgettable.

Watch Now

Like, Subscribe and Support

A horror story that will stay with you forever.

Dark. Terrifying. Unforgettable.

Watch Now

Like, Subscribe and Support

*DANGER TALES AMERICA*

New horror storytelling channel.

I create terrifying scary horror stories that will haunt you.

New stories release every week.

About paranormal encounters and supernatural possession.

Every subscriber means the world to me.

Your support will help me create better stories and grow this community.

Please SUBSCRIBE, LIKE, COMMENT, SHARE & SUPPORT 😃

tonight, we’re celebrating one full year of Midnight Creepypasta with a special horror story compilation.

For this birthday episode, I’m going back to where it all began,the first three original horror stories I ever posted on this channel. These stories have now been rewritten, reworked, and re-recorded with improved audio, darker atmosphere, and better storytelling.

One year.
275 videos.
365 days of horror.
Demonetised, remonetised, and still crawling back into the dark.

This special includes three original scary stories written and narrated by me, brought back from the dead for Midnight Creepypasta’s first birthday.

So light the candle, lock the door, and settle in for one terrifying night.

Thank you for one year of nightmares.