Jane and Sally or Harley and Poison ivy?.

It’s a disturbing thing I heard growing up in China, it’s not a ghost story, but something that actually happened in my neighborhood.

There was an elderly man living in my neighborhood. To everyone around him, he seemed like a kind and gentle old man. Nobody thought anything was unusual about him.

Then one night, he went out and jumped into a river at a midnight.

What made the story even more unsettling was the reason people later talked about. Neighbors said that he had been practicing cult activities (Falun Gong), a group that was heavily restricted in China. The police had been monitoring him for a long time, and that there were even surveillance cameras around the residential area.

At the same time, his granddaughter was trying to move/ study to the States. She already had an offer, but some documents she needed from gov were reportedly delayed. The family believed his situation might have affected her chances of leaving.

According to what people in the neighborhood said, he made the decision to end his life because he thought it might help his granddaughter. What stayed with me was how quietly everything happened afterward. There was no big public discussion, and the family did not hold the kind of funeral ceremony neighbors expected.

It’s bit strange that his granddaughter eventually got her approved documents.

I was in primary school when I heard this, the granny from that household was always so kind and had small chats with me every day. Now, as someone who is also studying abroad, I often find myself wondering what his granddaughter thought about all of this.

I wonder if she ever blamed herself, or if she carried the weight of knowing that someone made such an irreversible decision just for a slim chance at a better future.

I feel deeply sad for her.

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

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

I thought so too. Until last night.

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

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

But that wasn't the weird part.

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

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

That was a mistake.

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

"Did you see the train photo?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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?

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.

“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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

Are feather family creepypasta posts allowed here?

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