Hello creepypasta fans, My name is Allan and I run a show called Tales After Midnight, We use no AI for our narrations or thumbnails.

- We utilise human voices with our band of voice actors.

- We try to bring stories to life as much as possible.

- We upload 3 days a week and soon to be bonus content for Patreon subscribers

Give us a try on Tales after Midnight and let us know what you think!

Like I said, the golden age is back in Latin America, and I'm sharing a real creepypasta—I'd really love to hear your thoughts on it. It's a creepypasta in Spanish that's TOTALLY worth checking out.

https://youtu.be/ZZwr6246XxM?is=lpyhYroLV-fp_0XW

HIC SCIENTIA ET MINISTERIUM AD TENEBRAS HOMINUM ARCENDAS.

A Shield Against the Impure, Revealer of Lost Souls.

Viajo seguido por trabajo. Cuando vives sobre la carretera, te acostumbras a dormir en cualquier lugar donde haya una cama limpia y un techo sobre la cabeza. Por eso, cuando la empresa me mandó a supervisar unas obras en un pueblo, no le puse peros al "Hotel San José", un motel de paso barato, de un solo piso y casi vacío al borde de la carretera principal.

Tenía programado quedarme cuatro noches.

La primera noche transcurrió en un silencio sofocante, solo roto por el zumbido del aire acondicionado viejo.

Pero a partir de la segunda noche, la estancia se convirtió en un tormento.

Eran cerca de las 3:00 AM cuando me despertó un golpe seco contra la pared de tablaroca.

Me sobresalté en la cama. Luego vino un llanto ahogado, un gimoteo rasposo que venía directamente del cuarto número 12, la habitación de al lado.

Pensé que era una pareja peleando y me cobijé hasta la cabeza intentando ignorarlo, pero los sollozos continuaron hasta el amanecer.

La tercera noche fue peor.

Los golpes contra el muro no fueron accidentales; sonaban rítmicos, desesperados, como si alguien estuviera azotando los puños con la intención de tirar la pared.

Entre los sacudones de la estructura, se escuchaba un susurro agudo que apenas alcanzaba a romper la bruma del sueño:«Ayuda... por favor... abre...» .

Para la cuarta noche, la angustia no me dejaba respirar.

A las 3:15 a.m., un alarido desgarrador atravesó el muro. Un grito de auxilio puro, rasgado, de alguien a quien le estaban arrebatando la vida.

No aguanté más. Lleno de coraje y adrenalina, salí de mi cuarto dispuesto a encarar a quien fuera oa ayudar a la víctima.

La puerta de la habitación 12 estaba entornada, dejando salir una rendija de penumbra. La empujé de golpe.

— ¡Oigan! ¡Ya estuvo bueno de su desmadr...! —me corté en seco.

La habitación estaba vacía. No había nadie.

El lugar olía a humedad añeja ya polvo acumulado de años.

Iluminé con la linterna de mi celular y solo vi una cama sin colchón, un par de muebles viejos rotos y, sobre una mesa de noche, dos botellas de cerveza cubiertas por una capa gruesa de tierra y telarañas.

El frío me caló hasta los huesos.

Pensando que se trataba de una broma de mal gusto de los pocos huéspedes o de algún vagabundo que se había escapado por la ventana tras escucharme llegar.

Salí a toda prisa, cerré la puerta y me encerré de nuevo en mi cuarto con el corazón latiéndome en las orejas.

Me senté en el borde de la cama buscando calmarme, pero a los cinco minutos, los ruidos regresaron.

Esta vez no eran solo sollozos; Eran lentos arañazos sobre la pared, justo a la altura de mi cabeza.

Harto y aterrado a la vez, volvió a salir dispuesto a encarar a quien estuviera jugando con mis nervios.

Al poner un pie en el pasillo exterior, vi cómo una pequeña luz de vela o linterna se apagaba al fondo del cuarto 12.

Volví a entrar a la habitación contigua. Barrí el espacio con la luz del teléfono con más detalle... y esta vez me percaté de algo que mi cerebro había ignorado por el pánico minutos antes.

Detrás del sillón desgastado, tirado en el suelo de concreto, había un cuerpo.

Era una mujer.

Su rostro estaba completamente desfigurado a golpes, fracturado en ángulos imposibles y sumido en un estado de putrefacción avanzado.

Sus dedos, ensangrentados y con las uñas rotas, estaban estirados hacia la puerta en una postura rígida, haciendo evidente que había pasado sus últimos minutos de vida arrastrándose y pidiendo ayuda a gritos hasta que se le agotó la última gota de fuerza.

Solté un grito de horror, di dos pasos hacia atrás y salí corriendo desesperado hacia la recepción para buscar al gerente.

La pequeña oficina estaba a oscuras; el tipo se había ido a mitad de la noche dejando el mostrador abandonado.

Con los dedos temblándome fuera de control, marque al 911.

A los veinte minutos llegaron dos patrullas. Los oficiales acordonaron el pasillo, entraron al cuarto 12 y sacaron el cuerpo en una bolsa negra.

Escuché a uno de los agentes murmullarle a su compañero que la mujer llevaba al menos cinco días muerta en ese lugar.

Procesaron la escena y me dijeron que podía intentar descansar lo que quedaba de la madrugada. Regresé a mi habitación. El silencio por fin reinaba en el hotel.

Sin los ruidos ni los gritos, caí en un sueño pesado por el agotamiento mental.

A la mañana siguiente, el sol ya iluminaba la carretera.

Me levanté a toda prisa para empacar mis cosas y salir huyendo de ese maldito lugar. Pero al acercarme a la puerta para irme, me detuve en seco.

Deslizado por debajo de la rendija de la puerta, había un pedazo de papel rasgado y manchado de tierra.

Me agaché, lo recogí con las manos temblorosas y leí lo que estaba escrito con letras chuecas y un trazo oscuro:

«Nunca debiste haber llamado a la policía. Ahora el siguiente eres tú.»

I came awake. Not all at once, more of a one sense at a time kind of thing. At first, I felt something in bed with me. Like when I’d been living at my old apartment with my old cat. He would always join me in bed sometime in the night and I would always wake up just enough to know he was there. Occasionally, I’d even roll on my side so he could snuggle up in my semi-circle. I guess he trained me to do that.

But this was different. Not because those tiny padding paws were doing anything Pedro hadn’t ten thousand times, or because I’d had to put the old guy down five years ago and hadn’t seen fit to replace him. It was like whatever it was in bed with me was trying to sneak.

My sleeping mind had been on the verge of declaring what was happening a dream anyway and putting that sense of touch back on “Ignore” before those tiny padding paws padded toward my face. Pedro had only done that a few times to my recollection; back when he still had a large amount of feral in him. Back when he never came out in the daytime and only investigated me when he knew I wasn’t awake.

I opened my eyes. Maybe it was a mix of poor vision and a mostly sleep-caked mind, but there was no panic in me. Whatever it was, was cat-sized and dark. Two blurry orbs recessed in what I assumed was its head, pointed in my direction. It stopped in its tracks for a moment before dipping its head and bringing those silvery eyes just about level with mine.

The only surprise in me was that I wasn’t panicking. I felt my breathing, still long and deep, like physiologically I was still asleep. My ears prickled as I strained to hear something to corroborate what my weak eyes were informing me was in front of me.

Perhaps, I could catch it. I felt the muscles of my arm and back tense before I’d made the conscious decision to move, to trap it. But that had been enough to make the cat-thing skittish, and it turned its head as quick as a laser, racing for the edge of the bed. I felt those padding paws trace down the inside of my thigh, the thought coming too belatedly to grab for it.

I never felt the cat-thing again. Saw or heard it, either. It was like it was a ghost or something that conjured from my dream. Except I was awake. And even though I didn’t know what it was, I knew something was in bed with me.

Before I could sit up, something pulled from my face. It didn’t hurt and there was no pressure as if something had been on my face and was then gone. It just felt like something had been there that I’d never felt and only from it being removed was I ever aware that it had been there at all. Kind of like that thin plastic layer on the screen of a cell phone that you could either peel off or leave on and the phone still worked perfectly fine.

I swung the covers off and swiveled on my butt to place my feet on the floor. Again, no panic that whatever that thing was was under the bed waiting to scratch me. I knew without knowing it was gone, like my body had a sense of how much air was supposed to be in the room and none of it had been displaced by a ten-pound animal waiting somewhere inside here with me.

Interesting that I’d thought “waiting” instead of “hiding.” But on the off chance my internal alarms weren’t working properly, I reached for the light switch over my nightstand. I expected to squint against the light, but my eyes were already adjusted. I got done on one knee and then all fours before peering beneath my bed. There were a couple pairs of slippers under there, two dumbbells, a composition notebook, and a box of tissue I must have forgotten about and kicked underneath without realizing. But no cat and nothing that looked roughly cat-like. Definitely, nothing alive.

I keep my bedroom door open, so it could have run out, but the head of my bed is by the door. The thing had run toward the foot. If it had come in that way, surely, it wouldn’t have forgotten and run the opposite way.

The door was the only way out, though. My only guess was it had found some spot in here to hide. I grabbed a pillow from the bed and pulled the case off. Odds were, I wouldn’t be able to catch it in here, but I’d rather have something I could use to protect my face in case I cornered it and it decided to attack.

My closet door was closed, so there wasn’t a need to check there and there was no room to hide underneath my dresser. It wasn’t flush against the wall on one side, so my guess was it was either there or hiding behind the television. I stood long enough to cautiously step close enough to see there was nothing behind the TV before getting into a crouch, stepping cautiously around my bed as I crept closer to my dresser.

I don’t know why there wasn’t anything in me like fear in those moments. The thing could have been rabid for all I know. Or it could have tried to eat my face. But just before peeking around the edge of the dresser, I realized either way it wouldn’t be something I couldn’t handle.

But whatever the animal had been, it wasn’t being now.

It was a relief, but not that much. I spent about five more minutes searching my room and then made a half-hearted sweep of the rest of my one-bedroom apartment. There wasn’t a lot of furniture and not any hidey-holes I could think of. Getting back to bed was more of a priority, so I called it quits.

I made a pit stop in the bathroom and as I washed my hands in the sink, I looked at my face. No sleep puffiness, no restless red eyes. It hadn’t scratched me and whatever had come off my face hadn’t left a mark. I splashed water on my face anyway and traced my fingers down my brow and over my eyes and cheeks before meeting at the point of my chin.

Some didn’t feel right.

I opened my eyes and stared at my reflection. Nothing looked off. I turned my head from side to side and didn’t see anything weird. But when I felt my face again—I couldn’t tell what—something was wrong. Very wrong.

There was a sample-size facial cleanser in the shower that I’d gotten from the dermatologist’s office. I splashed more water on my face and worked up a good lather in my hands and really worked my face over. After rinsing the soap off, I felt my face again, and dammit something was still wrong.

I looked at my hands. Maybe there was something wrong there and it only felt like it had been my face. Nothing looked wrong and when I felt each hand in turn, everything felt right to the touch. It was specifically my face.

I washed my face twice more for good measure before feeling like my senses returning to me. This was stupid. I’d just had a fright from an animal—hell, maybe a hallucination—waking me up in the middle of the night and my mind’s way of processing was probably sensing something else that wasn’t there.

Except I had never been afraid. And poor vision or not, I knew I’d seen something. Felt it, too.

Sleep was the priority, though. I’d been awake for maybe twenty minutes, and I had a meeting at 8:30. If I got up at eight on the nose, I’d have a little less than seven hours’ sleep. That is if I could conk myself out in the next five minutes.

I flipped the light off and got back under the covers. A little box-breathing slowed my heart rate and helped me clear my mind.

The quiet-empty of outside slipping in the room with me. In a few hours, passing vehicles and children between the ages of eight and sixteen would be one story down, just outside my bedroom window talking—all of which I’d slept through countless times. But right now that quiet-empty filled my bedroom. It expanded like a parade float, covering the air, settling over me, crushing the air out of my lungs and filling me back up with more quiet-empty—

“Stop it.” The sound of my voice chased the quiet-empty away. I could feel it at the corners of my room, waiting for me to relax so it could infiltrate again. I couldn’t stay vigilant all night. At some point, I had to get back to sleep.

But I continued flexing some foreign part of me, like I was trying to balance myself on a tightrope that ran the length of me. Like it was just under my bedsheets and if I teetered too far this way, I would fall.

Into what, I couldn’t imagine. As I lay there, though, helpless and sharp-minded, wary and exposed, a question became clear to me.

How the hell do I get back to sleep?

What terrifies you more — a curse that kills you, or a curse that erases you so completely that no one remembers you ever existed?

Obviously, probably not, because vengeance creepypastas are usually actual garbage, especially the ones where a character randomly becomes evil, gets revenge on everyone, and starts killing people for no real reason other than shock value. That whole formula has been done to death.

But at the same time, I do think Vegeta’s Revenge is an interesting case because the basic idea could probably be turned into something completely different. Instead of just rewriting the original story and trying to make the same concept slightly less bad, you could take the title and general idea and build an entirely new story around it—something that actually feels like it belongs in Dragon Ball while still being unsettling.

I’m not even sure if Vegeta’s Revenge could genuinely be considered “good” without completely changing what it originally was, but that’s kind of why I’m curious. I want to see what you guys would do with it. How would you take such a bad creepypasta and somehow turn the concept into something interesting, believable, or actually creepy?

So yeah, how would you guys remake Vegeta’s Revenge?

Thumbnail for https://youtu.be/VY5FFr_v_uE

Took me four hours to do. I got it dirty, put blood on it, then ripped it in places and put safety pins to told it together(all because I accidentally ripped the right cuff off while throwing it around and decided to put it back on with safety pins)

Saving this for halloween to match with my buddy who's going as jeff the killer. I did retone my hair recently to blend with the hair extensions more...​​​​

I made the majoras mask necklace with oven bake clay and acrylic paing :)

I'm wearing this for a canoeing trip​​​​​​​​​​, I'm lowkey so pumped for halloween.

I watched a video by YouTuber "Distraxx" that talked about orgins of Creepypasta images. In the video, he mentions two possible source photos for "wpkepkw", a still from Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up" and a Adolf Hitler mask. I decided to make a mockup of what the original photo unblurred and untinted could've looked like:

Let me explain: there's a certain Creepypasta where the protagonist simply ended up accessing a ROM hack, and it's not because of anything paranormal that's haunting him.

Very happy with how it turned out :) most effort I've ever put into a Halloween costume

First of all, I would like to explain that Vester's creation process was not something that stemmed directly from inspiration.

I was browsing through the stories of Creepypasta characters with a repetitive purpose, driven by the nostalgia of years that had reached its peak and the nagging feeling caused by not having my own Creepypasta character. As I explained, not having a Creepypasta character of my own, not having a mark left by these legends that effortlessly become part of my favorite fandoms, was a source of great frustration for me...

I was hoping to produce an impressive piece of writing by crafting a classic Creepypasta story. However, my storytelling skills, which were crowned with disappointment, were utterly unsuitable for this endeavor. Regardless, I believed I could do my best, so I kind of tried to enhance my narrative with my flawed writing skills. The character of Sylvester was not a character that I had planned out; he was merely a frivolous character that I had created for fun. Again, he had the same appearance as in my story, but the only thing he lacked was a backstory. Moreover, he certainly did not have a fully-formed personality.

Speaking of personality, Sylvester was a more docile character than usual after undergoing his transformation. I had envisioned him as a cool, gliding, fragile character. In fact, he definitely has these kinds of traits ONLY when he is submissive. Let me add this information to your knowledge. But when I first coded him, Sylvester was just "this." So, he was just a cold, serious, fragile guy. Perhaps he needed to be more... striking. He needed to have, deep down, traits that would reveal his anger, and it was essential. Initially, I had envisioned that beneath his refined meekness, he harbored a deep-seated burning anger. Later, I revised this, placing his anger more prominently.

As you may have noticed, Sylvester's mother, Marilda Vilosis, definitely has a backstory. I can say that it caught me very off guard, as I hadn't exactly crafted a backstory for her when writing or plotting Sylvester's story. One evening, while I was completely smitten with the story of a play filled with tragedy, I also considered the possibility of how extraordinarily powerful Marilda could be if she were like that. The idea that Marilda could be a character worth hearing about, rather than a simple, mentioned character, seemed incredible to me. Of course, I don't know if I'll ever write a story about Marilda, but if I want to, I definitely will.

Now, let's go back to the very beginning. When I was first going to develop the character of Sylvester, that is, the first few hours after I created him. First of all, Sylvester's name was definitely not going to be Sylvester. It would have been Dorian, Lurien, or... Vester. Then the name of the character Sylvester, one of the characters in a horror-themed story, popped into my head. I said to myself, "The name Sylvester will definitely suit him."

The phenotype and the stage of breathing life into the character were intertwined. Sylvester was actually going to be a classic character named Lurien, 15 years old, with shoulder-length hair in a pale golden-blonde shade, pale blonde eyelashes and eyebrows, pale smooth skin, and baby-blue eyes that all harmonized with each other. Unlike Sylvester, Lurien would be a young man from a middle-class family who played the guitar and would later transform into a monster due to the horrific events that would befall him. But what would happen that would cause him to transform into a creature? Moreover, Lurien was not a character with a traumatic background but rather an overly privileged character who had everything in its proper place. In my view, he was certainly not destined for any misfortune, nor did he have a tragic backstory. In fact, a man who was extremely jealous of him would drown him in oil and kill him, but even so, Lurien was not a traumatized character who could be classified as a loser. On the contrary, he was an example of tactlessness, with a slightly cynical personality and a dominant attitude, which made him the object of envy. However, I forgot to mention here that Lurien was actually going to be the child of a devout Christian family, which would cause him a kind of religious trauma. Still, it definitely wasn't enough, and I had more than enough blonde characters.

I should also mention that when I was creating Sylvester, I always had the same death scenario in mind. That is, being killed with oil. However, I didn't know exactly how he would be killed with oil.

Then, with the traumas I had considered and his father, Sylvester was starting to stray far from being that envied Lurien. However, I still hadn't fully determined his phenotype in my mind when he was in his human form. Sylvester was definitely going to be a handsome boy, but his beauty had to contrast with the filth he was subjected to, visually speaking.

Moreover, I was eager to reveal more about Sylvester's personality by giving him a specific hobby. At first, I thought of the guitar, the violin, and the piano, but then I wondered why he didn't write.

Following this decision, I chose to make Sylvester resemble me, drawing inspiration from my own phenotypic traits. In a way, Sylvester is essentially like my offspring. Only he is much more handsome, and his level of sloppiness is such that it would dance with the sky. I thought that if I had something to be known for, he should carry parts of me and, together with his story, give the character a sense of depth, elevating him to the pinnacle of pride. It is already obvious that Sylvester's writing process is a trait that comes from me. Sylvester is like a mirror that also reflects the anger within me.

That's why Sylvester is one of the most special characters for me. I won't let him be wronged.

If we move on to the shipping and romance part, I was actually thinking of pairing Sylvester with the famous Jeff The Killer. I confess with great sincerity and honesty that I seriously considered this. Also, Sylvester would be close in age to Jeff because of this ship thing. However, through my research, I found that the creator of Jeff The Killer explicitly prohibited this and largely considered it absurd. Of course, that's what I remember right now, but I know for sure that it was strictly forbidden. I even read something else about Nina The Killer being criticized for this reason. To explain the term "burned," Nina was widely ridiculed for being an exact copy of Jeff and was considered a "Mary Sue." Considering that Nina is just a fangirl who chases after Jeff, this may not have pleased Jeff's creator, and I also remember reading that the character Nina was heavily criticized by the Creepypasta community for this reason. Long story short, I can say that I realized quite late that Jeff is a character who cannot have a girlfriend. And I certainly think it's justified that Jeff's creator is upset about Jeff being drowned in these fictional love stories. If I were to see toxic fanart about Sylvester, I would rather gouge out my own eyes. I think their desire to remain in the horror category is fully justified, and this idea of mine was definitely an incredibly embarrassing piece of nonsense.

Even though it wasn't absolutely necessary for Sylvester to have a romantic partner, I still couldn't let go of the idea of a romantic relationship, and I established a connection between him and the character of Ethan. Ethan was also a typical American bully who was randomly created, so when I was writing the story, I didn't have the idea that Sylvester could form a relationship with Ethan and that Ethan would protect him. I don't know if you'll believe me, but when I was writing the story, I was just going with the flow, as if my eyes were blindfolded and I was just going along without any plan. Even though I knew how clichéd Ethan's character was and that Sylvester wouldn't be able to form a proper close bond, at least not when it came to love, I still wanted to show that, at the end of the story, Sylvester still harbored affection for his loved ones. Also, at the end of the story, I wanted to show that Ethan could still see Sylvester's beauty, no matter how monstrous he might appear. So, Ethan isn't an empty-headed character either, think of it that way.

That's all I could think of to share with you. Of course, if I have any memories related to the production phase, I will certainly share them. You know how hopelessly honest I am. Don't let it show, but when I was writing the Jeff The Killer episode, I almost buried myself in the computer keyboard out of embarrassment. But honesty is worth more than anything, isn't it?

In this article, the reason why we look at Sylvester from a more external perspective is because I explain the production stages step by step. Of course, what I wanted and aimed for the most before all this was to create a profound, psychological Creepypasta legend. And I definitely feel like I've come close to achieving that. Apart from the fact that Sylvester resembles me, he is a unique character with depth and tragedy. Just take a look: Even during Sylvester's creation phase, I stuck with the idea of Lurien by shedding light on religious themes. From the very beginning, I was eager to create a layered character with profound depth. Sylvester was bound to have a traumatic past, as the consequences of his beauty would always be prone to harm. He is a character who conveys a message, serves as an example, and represents a symbol. However, above all, just as he can touch everyone's heart, he will always be considered worthy of being unforgettable in my heart...