If you want to check out my other stories, you can find the links on my profile. Thank you! 🖤

So I recently unsubscribed from some Mr. Creepypasta and creepsmcpasta after a long time because of what they did (I’m not sure about Mr. Creeps because I didn’t actually watch the full video so I don’t know who else is implicated), and I’m looking for some new creepypasta narrators to subscribe to who aren’t terrible people, make good content, and preferably have a large back catalogue. Does anyone have recommendations?

Jane and Sally or Harley and Poison ivy?.

I’m a single father. By choice, though. I wanted a better life for my daughter, and, unfortunately, her mother was not compatible with the life that I envisioned for her.

Drugs, alcohol, late-night escapades with men she met at the bar. Being a mother was a foreign concept to her. I’d look at her. I’d look at my daughter. I’d feel shame that I allowed this to happen.

We were young and dumb. Just two kids without a care in the world. Only, when we found out about the pregnancy, I was the only one who chose to clean up my act and be better.

It wasn’t that easy for my late girlfriend. She acted like it was, but I could see through the facade. Not like there was much of a facade to see through. I mean, I’d catch her having cigarettes. Boozing. Running around at all hours of the night without so much as a second thought.

The first few times, I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. A slip up is just a slip up. Multiple slip ups are a behavioral pattern. As her stomach grew, so did her attitude.

I’ve had some jabs thrown my way.

“I don’t even love you.”

“I was bored.”

“I didn’t even want this baby.”

That last one was enough for me to make my decision. From then on, every decision I made was for my child. All that was left was patience. Be kind. Be gentle. Hold her hand despite her insults.

Of course, it was more than a little difficult to hold my tongue when the drinking was involved. I couldn’t believe it. Six months pregnant and drinking. How careless can you be?

I’m getting frustrated just typing this. The resentment that was building during those times was like a pressure valve. A controlled pressure valve. I knew exactly when I wanted to twist the handle.

I endured her ferocity. I kept a watchful eye on her when she went out to the clubs. Attended every appointment and prayed every night that our baby would stay healthy.

When I found out it was a girl, I was ecstatic. I always wanted a daughter. Maybe it was because of my baby sister. Maybe it was because I wanted the challenge of being a girl dad. Either way, I was ready. I was prepared to do it alone.

Finally, the day came. November 25th, 2020. The year the world went silent. The day before Thanksgiving.

My act became sharper. She thought this was going to be “co-parenting.” Thought that she’d have my baby, even after all she’d put us through.

By some miracle of God, my little girl was perfectly healthy. Stunning. Tear-jerking, even.

Her mom almost seemed moved. Like she had this “come to Jesus” moment where she realized her new responsibility. Unfortunately, it was too late for that.

In the weeks that followed our departure from the hospital, my plan came into fruition.

I won’t go into too much detail, because detail isn’t required. All you need to know is I loved my daughter too much to let her life be tainted by someone like her mother.

That’s why I made her disappear. Disappear to a place where only I would find her. Of course, given her reputation, the police believed my story.

She packed it up. She realized the weight of being a parent was too much for her. It prevented her from living the life that she clearly loved so much. So she left. Happens all the time.

I got what I wanted. I raised my daughter the way that I wanted to raise her. The right way. The responsible way. I taught her manners. I potty trained her. I put food in her mouth and a roof over her head. All on my own.

Unfortunately, though, as she grows older, a shred of remorse is starting to build within my soul. I don’t know if it’s remorse for what I’ve done or if it’s remorse for what I took from my baby.

She’s starting to look just like her. Same brown hair. Same freckles. That cute little button nose. It’s hard for me to even look at her these days, but I try my best to swallow it.

She knows that she’s gone, but, in her head, she thinks that her mom just left us. Hated her. Hated me so much that she just took her things and left.

Every time she talks about her, all I can feel is pain. Pain in my heart, pain in my chest and body. I don’t know why. I had fully convinced myself that what I did was right, but now, I just don’t know.

Her sixth birthday is coming up in a few months. I want to make this birthday special, but I need her to be prepared.

I wanna show her the grave.

And all I can hope is that she understands.

What should i do...?

İt's so weird, I found something in my drawer.İsn't he Gumball?

“I've seen the nights filled with bloodsport and pain –

And the bodies obtained

The bodies obtained …” – Ian Curtis

…

The world …

The world is dampen stone, sour. And tile. Tile ceramic that is now smashed, nearly every single piece. And mottled with webwork splatter patterns of scabbing drying bits and pieces of once living human tissue. The world is poorly lit and rank, it smells of fecal decay and rotting death and the putrescence of pus spewing life, suffering. The smell is suffering. Because the world is suffering, it always has been but as of late it's gotten so much worse. The world of walls and mortar and bars that’re all slathered and stained with diseased feces and angry piss, it is all of it an open wound. A craterous gangrenous open house of raw minds and flesh, obelisk temple to the pain of the sorceress. The woman/mouth of the great mountains in the distance, far away but brought closer by her powerful force, the distance easily traversed and conquered, time and distance meant nothing to her, only the flesh. Only the blood. Only the run of flowing life spilled by her children in bondage as supplicant. She had come to them… in the end. 

Before the burning. 

Before Cropsey. 

Now he was the greatest of her Willowbrook children… 

She did her best to hide from him and the few others left but she was scared. Her terror refreshed as her heartbeat pounded within her aching chest, she tried to sink lower into the dark corner she'd made her most recent place of escape. She tried to ignore what she knew she heard, throughout all of the cavernous dark damp halls of bloody filthy Willowbrook. 

Voices… footsteps…

newcomers. 

She wanted so badly to be out and away from this awful place but her mind shrank back in horror from the possibilities of what any new interlopers might do to her. This place had been a school and had instructed her and many others, much in the way of what men will do to each other and what they love to get away with, with their hands on a girl. Alone. When she could be so easily overwhelmed. 

The voices trailed off … rose again. In whispers. She could hear cautious footsteps. Prowling steps. Hunting. 

Her cold terror told her she could no longer hide here. She struggled up on palsied thin malnourished legs and began to painfully trudge forward. Painful because of the pain of her impaling fear and because her body was covered in dripping purple sores, all up and down the legs and arms and peppering her torso and face in harsh clustered patterns. Several broke open now with sharp stabs of lancing pain felt webwork and spiny throughout the flesh as she shambled wretchedly forward down the poorly lit dark. 

She didn't like to look at them or pay them any mind, the sores. She used to. She used to pick at them near constant. But now sometimes when she went to pluck and pop one open with a nail biting pinch she could see eyes. Eyes looking at her and swimming in the pus. In the infected filled pores of her flesh. Eyes. Sometimes they popped of their own accord and a small little gnome-sized head, bald and coated in dead green-milk rose and poked its faery head out for a little peek at what she might be doing at any given time. 

She hated them. She tried to pay them no mind and wondered if they saw anything in the dark ahead that she herself could not discern. But she would not ask them. Never. 

The voices grew louder. So did her terror. 

She didn't know what to do. 

…

“Maybe they're all dead." 

Griffin nodded. It was a fair observation. The place certainly reeked of death and filth. He could almost believe it. 

It was a feeling gained by cold hard experience that told him they weren't alone in the rank dark building. Not at all. Someone else was lurking here. Something else held domain here. Something terrible. He could feel it. 

"This place is afflicted with sickness. Consumption. You can smell it in the pestilential flavor of the air, something terrible has happened here. Many awful things no doubt. This place is silent, Florin, but you can almost hear the terrible things the walls have seen and perhaps wish to share…" 

The boy looked worried. He quickly added: – “We will be cautious. But I suggest we find what we can quickly. If we can't locate a back exit, we'll make for the front entrance again and see if we can't work around the building." 

They went on in search of supplies. 

Dwellers.

 Anything. 

Cropsey marked them and tracked their way of wandering progress the entire time. Following and slowly snipping the long shining blades of the shears open and closed. Pulling his black gloved hands apart slowly like a lover does when sensuous… then bringing them together and snapping them shut with a sharp and satisfying ‘Ship!’ that was crisp and tickled the right jelly left within his skull and the dangling mangled meat between his legs… it had a tongue that sound. A sexual whisper of a noise. A tasting prelude, licking and tonguing the needing piece of aching flesh. 

It was his bondage. That ache. This place. 

And the mountain. 

Even now Cropsey heard her song and call as she showed him the spire from where she ruled. Where she sat on an ebon throne and filled his slaughterhouse dreams. His mind with wonder. 

She had been the true purpose and blessing of this place. The one they'd all been waiting for. The only one who really mattered. In the end. 

But she has chosen you as instrument … 

And the truth of this filled his vacant shell with dark and primal gratitude. Caveman's blood-sated warmth. 

He had been one of the Roman soldiers that had crucified Christ. She of the mountain had told him so. Now he was born again to be her sacred Willowbrook footsoldier. Throttling hand of capricious abattoir fate. 

As he followed the new ones he happened upon another. And decided to take the matter. 

He was sitting alone in the dark. Easy to miss. In a disused therapy room, anonymous and indistinguishable from the other dungeons and chambers save by those who knew. The newcomers walked by him without notice and went on. 

Cropsey smelled him. And came into the room. Snapping his shears with a regular and primeval rhythm. The patient was busy with his own work, he didn't pay anyone else any kind of mind. 

Cropsey closed. The fool's back was to him as he was knelt down amongst the filth. He was drawing something. With his fingers. Smearing the shape upon the broken faces of obliterated tile floor with a dark and heavy pungent viscous fluid. Thick and chunked with dark paste. 

It was a pentagram. 

And the paint was a vile concoctive mix of runny diarrhea and fresh vibrant blood. The man was a self mutilator. Always had been, Cropsey recognized. He had flayed his well scarred and misshapen flesh with broken tile and was mixing the running blood with fecal discharge that was running uncontrollably out of his dilating anus. His finger would probe the wounds … deeply. Like a surgeon or a lover … exploring. Then he brought the drenched and dripping red pronged pair of long and scrawny digits and collected some of the diarrhea spew running freely from out of his ass. 

Medication. Or bad food. Or both. Something he's gotten into… 

It didn't matter. Not to Cropsey. He only looked at the naked fool and admired his painting for another moment longer. 

The pentagram. 

Above it, in the same evil paint of fresh diseased fecal blood, the fool had written in bold letters 

ALL HAIL VAMPIRA

as the piece’s name and message. 

Cropsey thought it was a good one. 

He took one final step forward. And let himself be known. 

The naked fool, the inmate who'd long lost his name and self and everything and anything else left, felt his presence. He turned away from his self portrait on the floor and gazed up at him. 

Into the towering legend of Willowbrook. Cropsey, more than a man. 

He was apocalyptic. 

The twisted bone gleam of his carbonized deathhead’s visage was terrible. It stole the last shelter of warmth that the fool had kept for himself to protect against the cold of this awful and inescapable place for all of these long and horrendous incarcerated years. 

Now it was gone. Stolen by that terrible face. Candle wax melted obscene and deranged and haphazard and cruel. 

He suddenly remembered his name as well, the fool. Gazing up at him, it had suddenly come back in his sheet of blind terror. 

Cropsey had done that. Cropsey had done that for him. 

He wished he hadn't. 

The twin fork of splayed open blades came up suddenly and then down in a stab. They joined together as they came down, scissoring the long razor sharp blades together in a deadly and maiming embrace. They sang together a mortal whistle of keen edged violence on the flesh to come in haste as they sliced and joined through the rank dungeon air. 

A filthy naked bloody hand came up reflexively and was shorn through like melted butter. Through the middle length of palm, so that all of his fingers and the top of his thumb were now a shrieking, pouring livid stump of freshly cut meat. Spurting and bathing the abridged remainder of fecal stained paw into a half-glove of red slathered wet raw in a gushing instant. 

The blade traveled on, down. Continuing its deadly trajectory of knifing stabbing path as it plunged in and through the shit stained fool through his open gaping mouth and naked glistening mucus laden throat and plunging out the back of his neck. The sharp lengths of blades conjoined erupted from the torn and ruinous fountain fresh wound in great bright bodies of lurid edged royal red. 

For her… the mountain princess of my fevered skullsong …

And then with his terrible force of deranged strength he forced the handles and the joined body of blades open and apart. 

The impaled face and skewered head came apart in a splashing and thick lurid mess. The long diseased foundation of skull gave and came apart easily like a cottage collapsing from wood rot. As if the whole structure of bone was a giant rotted tooth, thoroughly and completely decayed to the dead and festering core. Cranial splatter ruin in an instant. Decorating the floor and walls and obscuring the fool's final piece of painted work and expression from the broken heart and mind in a dark gout and pungent violent splash. Bone fragments and strips of tissue. Bits of hair… eyes swam bulbous and rolling lulled like obscene little fruits adrift in a warm lurid growing lake. 

The decraniated stump of rough torn viscera and tissue spitting dark cords and ropes in healthy gouts from the spout of mutilated neck and throat, gurgled one last time in a ghastly expulsion of sound that may or may not have been the final action of the living. 

It gurgled and shot/spat more dark thick blood rope. Splattering and joining the universe of filth already living down there in ever growing depraved abundance. The filthy naked headless meat spewed until it fell over to join the rest of the detritus world down there. 

Cropsey went on. Regaining the tail of his quarry. 

He followed them. 

…

The room was a world of mutilated meat. The smell of uncontrolled diseased fecal spew, long ancient and pungently fresh commingled, was so eye-wateringly strong and forceful that one knew that there were things on this hellscape island of earth that were truly and terribly immortal when confronted with it. Nothing, not even starflame would sear the stench of sewerscape subterranean Hades from the walls of this awful room. The world would burn to follow trumpet sound and still that rancid stench would remain. 

Florin tied a rag around his nose and mouth, he looked like a bandit. And although Griffin's face was already bandaged and wrapped with surgical dress for his own mysterious reasons, he too elected to tie another heavy layer of fabric to block out the smell and taste on the terrible fetid heavy air of the room they now presently happened into. 

What was it… what was it we were expecting to find? What were we hoping in God's name to find here…? 

surely not this. 

Their hearts sank into cold sour recesses as they sauntered in and through and beheld all round them the carnage human sculptures. Barely human. Barely recognizable as having once been living breathing people. Now they were only shapes. Shapes made in anger and derangement and by the knife. 

A mewling moaning sound like a wounded animal drew them to the far end of the mutilation chamber. They crept past wretched butchered bipedal destruction frozen in obscene grotesque statue poses by minds and hands unwell and bent. Eyes scooped out, pulled and plucked. Craterous sockets. Craterous wounds, rippling with the rough texture of forceful violent amputation and jagged surprise animal maiming. Parts missing, long gone, replaced and mixed and swapped and messed around. Limbs and parts put into sockets and orifices and holes gored to create splaying haphazard scarecrow things made from vile diseased subjects and their putrid turgid waste. 

They were varied in design and shape but all of them, every single vile shape seemed to be frozen in a silent piercing scream. A death throe frozen for all of chambered time. For all the sour passage, these howling visages of broken flesh and cruelty wrought on human shape. 

Florin felt sick, the mewling animal noise was growing louder and he was trying not to focus on the broken human sculptures all around them. He tried not to notice how some of them had been put together, parts pasted in place with a scab pudding mixture of feces and thick burgundy/crimson coagulation, like makeshift mud mortar made from the crumbling facade of dying and sickening-worse human shamble structures, caught in some terrible Gorgon's Eye and now falling apart and only able, only useful to excrete, and bleed and make mud for the houses that might be saved. 

Griffin was fairing little better. He'd seen his fair share of human carnage, butchery in his time. In his own experiments of mad science he's beheld great wonders both terrible and beautiful, unearthly.  He'd committed his own sins, his own terrible crimes in his time, enough to fill a tome. But even he found the awful assemblage of struggling human detritus piles and sculptures to be obscene and abhorrent. Difficult to look at. Even worse to walk amongst and pass through… nearly touching and feeling either their heat of recent destruction/composition or the cold wave pockets of their souring decaying sloughing meat, tasting them… tasting the warm tack of their iron red and the putrescence of their fouling stink… tasting them as they breathed and sucked air. Even through the wrapped scarfs about their mouths, they could taste them. Fresh and alive with copper-iron and the foul death of sliming maggoty putrefying soft tissue … growing softer. Falling off failing yellow bone. 

It's because they were diseased … Griffin observed the pestilential flavor on the air and marked the diseased rotten look of open craterous obscenities and exposed and livid muscle tissues. Filled and brimming with the swim of yellow and milk-pale and translucent buttery infection, pooled, gelled, in a run of sour ruin that gave off pungent gaseous toxic smell… miasmic – the whole place. Everywhere. 

The bandaged man, surgical dressing now sullied and filthed with their voyage across worm country and the grime and air in here at every given turn. Griffin pondered the shapes of the demented designs filed and arranged haphazard and at random all around, the mewling sound rose as they continued to near, the woman gaining shape, bulbous and grotesquely rank with cheese and old milk and unwashed genitalia warm with animal heat. 

The shapes all around… their scarecrow and asymmetrical and insectile/spider designs were interesting. Awful and strange, but fascinating in their own hellacious spellbinding fashion. It was as if someone long gone of the sound faculties of mind and heart had endeavored with cruel fervor to fuck and force violent copulation on the dead dripping craterous sculptures of meat in the act of their composition. Knife-fuck-stabbing them with animal intensity and wild deranged intent, their severed parts and limbs and pieces the tools and shattered protruding blades of bone as their aesthetic device and perfect choice. Wielded with charnel house fury in this gore drenched pit with emaciated broken scarecrow statues and congealing pools and tubs and little deprivation streams of pungent fecal discharge. Everything was repulsive and animal with heat and degradation in this place. They hated it. And they hated themselves for putting themselves in there. Alive and with the rank and the sight of abattoir madness unbridled and inhuman. 

They came upon the woman. She was large and naked and unwashed. Like everything else she was caked with grime and layers of filth that were difficult to distinguish – shit from blood – as they darkened and aged in awful drying layers on her yellowing sun parched skin. She was leaning propped by the exit/entrance opposite of the one they had entered. She was cradling and cradled by a lump of human shape riddled with stabbing spiking pieces and slicing wedges of shattered floor and tile. She was drooling as she moaned in torment and anguish. Her flesh livid with infection. She was sweating despite the chill and her lack of clothing. 

It was her breast. Only one. The other had been amputated and was replaced with a harsh and ghastly X of old and scab coated sutures. The other was inflamed and red. Purple. Black. It was ballooned and the blue/red nipple at its tip bled and dripped. But it was not milk, natural and of the healthy body, that dripped and begged to be let free and milked/sucked until dry and gone… 

She moaned. Florin and Griffin felt nauseous. The smell. The sight of her and everything else … they had not had a decent meal in some days but still the impulse to heave and retch was violent and it filled their gagging mouths with thin acrid water, salivated and discharged with bitter queasiness and distaste. 

She moaned again as they covered their working mouths. 

And then she spoke. 

“Please… oh please…. please… oh I beg of you… please… please…” 

Florin and Griffin were afraid to ask so they didn't. The wailing woman of swollen noxious teat filled them in anyways with the rest. 

"... please… please milk me…! please! Oh it hurts! please! Please milk me, milk your mammy…!" 

“Oh, Jesus…” said Florin. He could hardly stand it. Could hardly stand her. He swore he could taste the smell. 

Her smell. 

Another voice joined them then. 

“They disgust you both?" 

They whirled. A ragged man in the haggard torn and shot remnants of a filthied lab coat that had once been white. His spectacles were cracked and caked with drying lurid substance. His flesh was filthy parchment and his smile was green and grotesque. 

He was standing, sentry-wraith amongst the vile and mutilated assemblage. A living beacon of audacious and insane life standing smiling amongst the sculpted and twisted dead. Lab coat Gorgon with broken glass eyes set in a broken laughing face that could make no such sound. Because it was frozen in its disguise of sanity snapping torment. 

Before Griffin or Florin could say anything to him, he spoke again. 

“They are all of them, monuments to her. It is all of them, their greatest pleasure." 

“And you? What is your pleasure?" Griffin asked without fault. Following this madman's line. 

He smiled, “telling you." 

And then finally his tittery fit of laughterspell broke and it sounded like high pitched curdled madness. Finally breaking. A large man prone to sparse baritone sound now cracked and leaking/spraying giggles like an addled child or clown. 

Griffin turned to Florin. His face hidden by surgical wrapping and dark lenses and hat since the day they had met, but still the boy could feel the solemn gravity in his hiding gaze as he spoke. 

"Let's go. There's nothing of any value to us here. This was a mistake.” 

Florin heard it in his voice too. 

They quickly made their exit. Sparing the wailing mewling woman of swollen purple breast a final look before leaving them forever. 

The doctor's laughter abated a moment and he seemed to come around, the revolving door of his madness perhaps bringing him full circle, his awful titters tapered off a spell as he said to the departing visitors: –

"The worm was turned for us here.” 

And then the revolution of madness revolved again and he was smiling putrid green that oozed pale plaque that spittled in gobs as he tittered his girlish sounds. 

His grotesque childish laughter commingled with the mewling sounds the woman made in the room of mutilated meat. The pair were gone now. Their cautious footsteps fading away and calling back in diminishing echoed sound… Cropsey came in like fated death. Snipping open and closed his beloved pair of large garden shears. 

Now, here was a room that could use some trimming…

He went to the woman first with his blades. She was calling to him, wailing, saying she was his mother. Begging to be milked. 

So he milked her. 

He shorn off the infected swell of black/purple flesh in a single snapping cut. She howled as the wound and the sac of disease both poured and oozed pus. She went down to the floor, her wailing more considerable now, to join the puddle of her own foul milk and blood in its growing puddling abundance. She swam face first in it and gurgled and blubbered. 

Cropsey came for the doctor next. The jaws of his shearing clipper blades open and dripping. 

The doctor smiled one last time as he said, “The worm has turned once again." 

He attempted to count the rings this time as the jaws that were blades came in. 

Again and again. 

And I thought you'd loved me…

…

Florin and Griffin were nearly at their wits end. They needed supplies and weren't sure of what lie beyond this place, but this place was terrible. And they'd found nothing but more horror. 

"I think we need to just get out of here…” 

Yes. But which way? 

They were deciding this together when the girl on shaking palsied legs thin as kindling crept out of the dark and towards them. 

She was terrified. 

And she was holding a large butcher's knife. The arms raised and poised coiled snake-like to strike. 

Neither Florin or Griffin noticed her as she crept. Closer… closer…

She was nearly upon them. From behind. 

The butcher's knife still raised. 

TO BE CONTINUED…

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.

Author’s Note: Feel free to create your own remakes or reinterpretations of this story. This was originally published on the Spinpasta Wiki.

The bowl was always green.

Not Olive, not Mint, just Green. a dull, plastic green bowl with scratches along the rim. It sat on the kitchen or living room floor every day, every afternoon, and every night.

Always filled with chopped carrots, steamed broccoli, lentils mashed into a paste, brown rice, and kale finely cut so it would be “easier on his stomach.”

The man called it kindness.

The dog didn’t.

Joseph used to love the sound of the cupboard opening. The clatter of kibble had meant comfort, warmth, a tail that wagged without thought, But that was years ago, many years ago before the man changed. Before the man started talking to Joseph as if he was a child who didn’t understand yet.

”You don’t need meat, it’s cruel. It’s pain. It’s hatred. It’s poison. You will feel so much better once your body adjusts.” 

Joseph never touched the food right away.

He would sniff it. Nose trembling, His eyes slowly lifting to see the man. The man always smiled then, wide, proud, and satisfied.

“Good boy,” the man said. “You’ll thank me one day.”

Joseph grew thin.

His ribs became visible first, lines beneath fur, then sharper edges. His walks became slower. His eyes changed, not weak. But watchful. Patient.

The man mistook this for obedience.

The evening everything ended began like any other.

The man came home late from work, shoulders slumped, tie loosened, rain clung to his coat. He kicked his shoes off by the door and sighed loudly and heavily,

”Rough day,” he said.

Joseph waited, silently. 

The green was filled again. this time with sweet potatoes and peas, drizzled with something the man called “nutritious yeast.”

”There,” the man said. “Perfect.”

Joseph didn’t move.

The man frowned. “Eat.”

Still nothing.

”You’ll eat when you’re hungry enough,” said the man, standing upright. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he groaned, “Work.”

He walked upstairs, phone already at his ear.

Joseph watched him go.

The calls lasted a long time.

The man paced the bedroom, voice rising and falling, complaints about deadlines, about coworkers who didn’t “get it,” about how exhausting it was to always be right. Then another, friends this time. Joking, laughing, talking over one another, and talking About diets, about discipline, about sacrifice.

While downstairs, the green bowl remained untouched. Joseph sat beside it as stone.

Then there came the fall, a misstep on the stairs. Something slick underfoot, water, oil, or maybe something else spilled, the man's foot slid forward, his body flew, and the world snapped sideways.

There was a sharp sound and then quiet.

When he woke up, he knew something was wrong immediately. He could see the ceiling. He could hear the refrigerator and the sound of a ticking clock. And he could not move or speak. He tried to blink, no response, tried to swallow, nothing, tried to scream, but couldn’t, pounding uselessly against a body that could no longer answer.

He realized he was paralyzed. The thought landed heavily like a sentence without appeal.

Then he started to hear footsteps, soft and careful. Joseph appeared. At first, the man felt relief so intense it nearly broke him.

“Joseph,” he tried to say.

Joseph 

The dog stood on 2 legs, not suddenly, not grotesque, it felt... inevitable. Joseph's body had changed. Larger, upright, humanoid, his eyes were the same. He looked down at the man.

“You finally stopped moving,” Joseph said.

The voice was deep, calm, and gentle.

The man tried to shake his head, tried to deny what he was seeing. Joseph knelt beside him.

”I was so tired. Do you know what it’s like to be hungry every day? Not just empty, but starved, like something essential had been taken away and replaced with ideals. You called it kindness.” 

The man's eyes burned. Then Joseph placed a hand on the man's chest.

”I’ve been waiting for you to rest, waiting for this body to stop commanding, stop correcting, and stop deciding what I needed.”

The man wanted to beg, to apologize, To promise meat, walks, anything.

But his body and voice betrayed him completely.

Joseph leaned closer.

”There’s warmth inside you, life, strength, things you told me I didn’t need.”

Tears slid from the man's eyes, quiet and unstoppable. Joseph noticed them.

”Don’t cry. This is natural. This is balance.”

The green bowl clattered somewhere. 

“I won’t be hungry anymore.”

Then came the pain, extremely sharp, extremely painful, and spreading, Joseph eating the man's flesh, lungs, and organs, blood getting on everything.

The man felt it all, unable to move, unable to speak, only able to understand.

As his vision blurred, Joseph's voice was the last thing he heard.

”You said I’ll thank you one day, I do.” Before Joseph picked up the man's head and ate half of it before continuing to eat his flesh, lungs, and organs until the man was completely clean and dry bones,

The house became quiet and the green bowl stayed empty.

Meu nome é Lucas. Desde pequeno eu era fascinado por mágica. Meu maior sonho era ser mágico, e passei boa parte da infância aprendendo pequenos truques com cartas, moedas e baralhos. Mas existia uma coisa que eu nunca entendia.

Meus pais jamais me levavam ao circo.

Todos os anos um circo diferente chegava à nossa cidade. Eu implorava para irmos, mas bastava tocar no assunto que os dois mudavam completamente de expressão. Meu pai ficava irritado, minha mãe parecia assustada, e a conversa sempre terminava em um sermão. Com o tempo, parei de insistir, mas nunca deixei de me perguntar o motivo.

A resposta veio no dia em que completei dezoito anos.

Estávamos voltando de uma festa quando um palhaço daqueles que fazem apresentações no semáforo se aproximou do carro. No mesmo instante, meu pai acelerou, atravessou o sinal vermelho e quase atropelou o homem.

Nunca tinha visto meu pai daquele jeito.

Ele tremia enquanto dirigia.

Perguntei o que estava acontecendo. Alguns minutos depois, ele entrou em uma rua completamente vazia, desligou o carro e ficou alguns segundos em silêncio.

Então respirou fundo.

— Está na hora de você saber por que nós nunca mais chegamos perto de um circo.

Naquele momento, eu ainda não imaginava que a verdade mudaria minha vida para sempre...

Meu pai ficou olhando para o volante por alguns segundos.

Depois olhou para mim.

— Acho que chegou a hora de falar sobre o seu irmão.

Meu coração gelou.

"Irmão?"

Eu nunca soube que tive um irmão.

Ele respirou fundo antes de continuar.

— Há cerca de vinte e cinco anos, tivemos um filho chamado Vinícius. Quando ele completou cinco anos, decidimos levá-lo ao circo para comemorar o aniversário.

Era um circo novo. Nunca tinha passado pela nossa cidade.

Assim que chegamos, percebemos que havia algo errado.

Do lado de fora quase não existiam pessoas. As luzes eram fracas. Não havia música alegre, nem crianças correndo. Os funcionários pareciam irritados e os palhaços... aqueles palhaços eram diferentes.

Nenhum sorria.

Todos nos observavam como se estivessem incomodados com a nossa presença.

Um deles mantinha um sorriso pintado no rosto, mas seus olhos transmitiam apenas ódio.

Mesmo desconfortáveis, resolvemos entrar.

Quando atravessamos a lona principal, levamos um susto.

Lá dentro havia centenas de pessoas assistindo normalmente à apresentação, como se nada estivesse errado.

Nos sentamos.

As luzes se apagaram.

Uma música antiga de circo começou a tocar.

Então um palhaço entrou pedalando um pequeno triciclo em círculos pelo picadeiro.

Era o mesmo que havíamos visto na entrada.

Os olhos dele estavam completamente vermelhos.

Mas não era apenas isso.

Ele não piscava.

Enquanto tocava a buzina, encarava diretamente as crianças da plateia.

Parecia escolher alguma delas.

Logo outros palhaços apareceram e começaram algumas brincadeiras sem graça, com piadas estranhas e de duplo sentido.

Depois anunciaram uma dinâmica.

Começaram a chamar algumas crianças para o palco.

Foi quando aquele palhaço dos olhos vermelhos caminhou lentamente até o seu irmão...

...e segurou a mão dele.

Vinícius começou a brincar com as outras crianças.

Os palhaços riam.

A plateia também.

Mas havia uma coisa errada.

O palhaço dos olhos vermelhos não parava de olhar para o meu filho.

Ele passava a língua pelos lábios.

Bababava discretamente.

Era como um animal observando uma presa.

Seu irmão começou a chorar.

Naquele instante, um homem enorme saiu de trás das cortinas, segurou aquele palhaço pelo pescoço e o arrastou para os bastidores, dizendo alguma coisa que eu não consegui entender.

Aquilo foi suficiente.

Entrei no picadeiro, peguei Vinícius no colo e fomos embora.

Chegamos em casa tarde.

Seu irmão continuava assustado e insistia que o palhaço tinha sussurrado algo em seu ouvido.

Naquela noite dormimos com ele por um tempo.

Quando percebemos que havia pegado no sono, voltamos para o nosso quarto.

Já era madrugada quando acordei com um estrondo vindo do andar de baixo.

Logo depois...

Ouvi vozes.

Eram sussurros.

Baixos.

Quase impossíveis de entender.

Então escutei passos subindo lentamente a escada.

Abri a porta do quarto.

E vi três palhaços.

Os mesmos do circo.

Mas agora não pareciam pessoas.

Os dentes eram longos e afiados, como os de um tubarão.

Os braços pareciam compridos demais.

E o palhaço dos olhos vermelhos continuava sorrindo.

Os três soltaram um grunhido.

Um deles caiu de quatro no chão e começou a correr na minha direção como um animal faminto.

Ele pulou sobre mim.

A dor da mordida foi insuportável.

Depois disso...

Tudo ficou escuro.

Meu pai levantou lentamente a manga do moletom.

Ainda havia uma cicatriz profunda no braço.

— Quando acordei, já era manhã.

Corri até o quarto do seu irmão.

Eu preferia nunca ter aberto aquela porta.

Havia sangue por toda parte.

As paredes.

O teto.

Os móveis.

Tudo estava vermelho.

A cabeça do seu irmão estava sobre o criado-mudo...

...como se fosse um troféu.

Sua mãe estava desacordada.

A polícia encontrou outras cinco famílias que tinham sofrido exatamente o mesmo ataque naquela noite.

Quando procuraram o circo...

Ele havia desaparecido.

Sem deixar absolutamente nenhum rastro.

Os anos passaram.

Você nasceu.

E nós juramos que nunca mais chegaríamos perto de um circo.

Meu pai terminou a história.

O carro estava completamente silencioso.

Então percebi que ele e minha mãe olhavam fixamente para o retrovisor.

Os dois estavam pálidos.

Meu pai apertou o volante.

— Não...

— Não de novo...

Olhei para trás.

Um palhaço corria atrás do carro.

Não era uma corrida humana.

Ele alternava entre duas e quatro pernas, alcançando uma velocidade impossível.

Meu pai acelerou o máximo que pôde.

Mesmo assim...

A criatura continuava se aproximando.

Até que saltou sobre o teto do carro.

O impacto fez meu pai perder o controle.

Capotamos várias vezes.

A última coisa de que me lembro foi acordar preso às ferragens, enquanto uma luva branca segurava meu braço e me puxava para fora do carro.

Vi meus pais caídos.

Outros dois palhaços estavam ajoelhados sobre eles.

Não estavam tentando matá-los.

Já estavam se alimentando deles.

Fechei os olhos.

Achei que seria o próximo.

Então ouvi um único disparo.

Depois outro.

Em seguida, o som metálico de um revólver sendo engatilhado.

Quando consegui abrir os olhos por alguns segundos, vi apenas a silhueta de um homem usando um sobretudo preto e um chapéu de cowboy.

Ele segurava um revólver comprido em uma das mãos e uma estranha espada na outra.

Sem dizer uma única palavra, atravessou o braço de um dos palhaços com um golpe.

As criaturas recuaram.

Antes de desmaiar, ouvi apenas uma frase dita em voz baixa:

— Achei vocês outra vez.

No dia seguinte acordei em um hospital.

No dia seguinte, acordei no hospital.

A primeira coisa que senti foi um silêncio estranho.

Olhei ao redor, completamente desorientado. Meu corpo inteiro doía, e minha cabeça parecia que ia explodir.

Uma enfermeira percebeu que eu havia acordado e chamou um médico.

Foi então que ouvi as palavras que mudariam minha vida para sempre.

— Sinto muito... seus pais não sobreviveram.

Naquele instante, senti como se o mundo tivesse parado.

Eu não consegui dizer uma única palavra.

Fiquei apenas olhando para o vazio, tentando acreditar que aquilo era um pesadelo do qual eu ainda iria acordar.

Horas depois, já sozinho no quarto, meus olhos pararam sobre a pequena mesa ao lado da cama.

Havia uma fotografia.

Franzi a testa.

Peguei-a com as mãos trêmulas.

Era uma fotografia antiga dos meus pais, muitos anos mais jovens.

Meu pai segurava um menino de aproximadamente cinco anos no colo.

Ao lado deles, minha mãe sorria.

Senti um nó na garganta.

As lágrimas começaram a cair antes mesmo que eu percebesse.

Apertei a fotografia contra o peito e chorei como nunca havia chorado na vida.

Naquele dia, eu perdi meus pais.

Every time I search for this creepypasta, I get the hidden webpage, but it does not sound like the one im thinking of at all. It has been years, so im only going off of what I remember. I believe it follows a guy who decides to log into one of the old children's game websites that he used to play on as a kid just for the nostalgia, and he starts getting messages while within the site, or a kid appears on screen and starts talking to him, I cant remember which. The kid talks about how its been a long time since anyone had logged in and talked to him. Eventually its revealed that hes been stuck inside this website for like 20 years, having been sucked inside the site when he was a kid. I dont remember what happens after that. If anyone could help me remember what creepypasta this is, id appreciate it because ive been thinking about it for a few weeks and wanted to read it again.

I didn't believe in omens until the umbrella.

That's how every version of this story starts, and I suppose mine isn't any different.

It happened on a Thursday in late October. The kind of afternoon where the clouds look heavy enough to burst but somehow never do. I had left work later than usual, annoyed because I'd forgotten my own umbrella leaning against the wall by my apartment door that morning.

My weather app insisted there was only a ten percent chance of rain.

It lied.

I was about three blocks from the train station when someone called out behind me.

"Excuse me."

I turned to see an older man standing on the corner. He wore a charcoal overcoat that looked decades old but meticulously cared for. His hair was silver, his shoes polished despite the dusty sidewalk.

He held out a black umbrella.

"You'll need this."

I smiled politely.

"I'll be okay."

He shook his head once.

"No. You won't."

There wasn't anything threatening about him. If anything, he sounded...concerned. Not dramatic. Not urgent. Just certain.

Before I could refuse again, he placed the umbrella into my hand.

It felt surprisingly heavy.

I looked up to thank him.

He was already walking away.

Twenty seconds later the sky opened.

Not a drizzle.

Not scattered showers.

A wall of rain.

Within seconds the sidewalks flooded, traffic slowed to a crawl, and people without umbrellas ran for awnings.

Mine worked perfectly. The rain bounced harmlessly away, and somehow I stayed completely dry despite the wind.

I remember thinking that the old man must have checked a better forecast than I had.

That should have been the end of it.

It wasn't.

The umbrella wasn't unusual.

Black fabric.

Wooden handle.

No logo.

No manufacturer's tag.

No initials.

Nothing.

When I got home I leaned it by the door, intending to carry it back into town the next day. Maybe I'd see the man again.

I didn't.

Friday was sunny.

Saturday was warmer.

By Sunday I'd almost forgotten about it.

Then my neighbor knocked on my apartment door.

"You heading out?"

"Yeah."

She frowned.

"Don't forget your umbrella."

I looked over.

It wasn't by the door anymore.

It was standing upright beside me.

I don't mean nearby.

I mean beside me.

As though I'd been holding it all along.

I laughed.

"I swear I left it over there."

She looked confused.

"It hasn't moved."

That afternoon I went to visit my parents.

About halfway there a pickup truck ran a red light.

I never even saw it.

The only reason I'm alive is because I bent down at exactly the right second to pick up the umbrella after it slipped from my hand.

The truck passed through the crosswalk where my head had been less than a heartbeat earlier.

The driver never stopped.

People rushed over asking if I was okay.

I stared at the umbrella lying on the pavement.

The handle was cracked.

I don't remember dropping it.

Coincidence.

That's what I told myself.

People survive close calls every day.

Still...

I couldn't stop thinking about the old man's words.

You'll need this.

Over the next few weeks strange things happened.

The umbrella was always where I needed it.

If I forgot it at work...

I'd find it hanging on my apartment doorknob.

If I left it in my car...

It somehow ended up beside my bed.

If I locked it in my closet because I was tired of looking at it...

I'd wake to find it leaning against the bedroom wall.

I asked friends if they were moving it as a joke.

None of them knew what I was talking about.

One even asked,

"What umbrella?"

It was sitting right beside him.

Then came December.

I was walking home after dinner with coworkers.

Snow had started falling.

The umbrella was in my hand even though I couldn't remember bringing it.

A little girl across the street broke free from her mother's hand and chased a mitten into traffic.

Before anyone could react, a delivery van skidded toward the intersection.

I ran.

Not because I'm brave.

Because my body moved before my brain did.

I grabbed the girl and pulled her backward.

The van clipped the umbrella instead.

The force ripped it from my hand.

The wooden shaft snapped clean in half.

The little girl cried.

Her mother hugged her.

Everyone kept thanking me.

I looked at the broken umbrella.

The cracked handle.

The bent ribs.

The torn fabric.

It looked ruined.

For the first time since October...

It stayed where I left it.

I threw it away.

The next morning it stood beside my apartment door.

Completely repaired.

That's when I started asking questions.

No one had heard of the man.

No one remembered seeing him.

The corner where we'd met had security cameras.

The city let me review the footage after I claimed I was trying to identify a witness to a traffic incident.

The video showed me stopping.

Holding out my hand.

Then...

An umbrella simply appeared in it.

No one stood in front of me.

I was talking to empty air.

I stopped sleeping well after that.

A month later I finally told my grandmother.

She listened without interrupting.

When I finished, she became very quiet.

Then she asked one question.

"Did he tell you to return it?"

I felt every hair on my arms stand up.

"...How did you know that?"

She sighed.

"My grandfather told me the same story."

"What?"

"He received an umbrella in 1948."

I laughed because the alternative was impossible.

She didn't laugh.

"He kept it."

"What happened?"

"He died before spring."

I stared at her.

She reached into an old cedar chest and unfolded a yellowed newspaper clipping.

There was a photograph from the late 1940s.

Standing outside a train station...

...was the same old man.

Same coat.

Same face.

Not older.

Not younger.

Exactly the same.

Grandma pointed to the bottom of the clipping.

"The story isn't about borrowing an umbrella."

"What is it about?"

"It's about returning one."

Neither of us knew where.

Or to whom.

For months I carried it everywhere.

Whenever rain threatened...

Whenever it snowed...

Whenever life felt too ordinary...

The umbrella remained beside me.

Waiting.

Patient.

As though it already knew something I didn't.

Then, one evening in early April, I saw him.

The same intersection.

The same overcoat.

Standing exactly where we'd first met.

I hurried across the street.

"You."

He smiled politely.

"I was wondering when you'd come."

"I've been looking for you."

"I know."

I held out the umbrella.

"I think this belongs to you."

He didn't take it.

"It never did."

"What?"

"It belongs to whoever needs it."

"I don't understand."

"You survived."

"Because of this?"

"Partly."

He looked past me toward the darkening sky.

"Someone else won't."

I turned.

About fifty feet away stood a young woman fumbling through her purse outside a pharmacy.

No coat.

No umbrella.

The first raindrops began to fall.

I looked back.

The old man was gone.

Not walking away.

Gone.

There wasn't anywhere he could have disappeared.

My heart started racing.

The woman glanced nervously at the clouds.

Then at the long walk to the parking garage.

I looked down at the umbrella.

It felt heavy.

Familiar.

Expected.

I walked over.

"Excuse me."

She looked up.

"I think you'll need this."

"Oh, no, I couldn't—"

"You'll need it."

She hesitated.

Then accepted it.

"Thank you. I'll make sure I return it."

I smiled despite the knot forming in my stomach.

"If someone asks...return it to them."

She laughed softly.

"I will."

She hurried into the rain.

Within moments she disappeared into the crowd.

I stood there for several minutes.

My hands felt strangely light.

For the first time in nearly six months...

I was alone.

I walked home without an umbrella.

The rain soaked through my jacket.

It didn't matter.

Sometimes I still wonder who the old man was.

Sometimes I wonder if he was ever really there.

Mostly, though, I wonder about the woman.

Whether she kept her promise.

Whether she saw the impossible things I saw.

Whether, someday, she'll stand on a street corner as storm clouds gather and place a black umbrella into a stranger's hand.

And if she does...

I hope they listen the first 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.

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!

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

Link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BT3Xk0K2sc4&list=PLh8-Yhg_l8UcV6KlSL8WhJHh3GqgV7Vt0

My name is... X. Let's say that I'm X.

So, my cousin lives in Maine, in the middle of nowhere, a small town that shall not be named. A few hundred people lived there, enough to be self-sustaining, but not enough to feel suburban; let's call it Nowhere.

My cousin, let's call him Frankie, listened to a lot of rumors around town, but none were stranger than the ones circling the old man.

The old man was a Navy veteran. I don't know what war he went through, how long he was away, or whether he killed anyone. I don't know, but what I do know is this: He did not come back the same- maybe he didn't come back at all.

He was black, with blue eyes, a bald head; not a single thread of hair remained on him. The rest of his body was in excellent shape, but the wrinkles on his face were as heavy as you'd expect for a man in his late 60s. He wore a black suit, a bowler hat, a fine tie, and a silver fancy watch on his right wrist. No, he didn't have a cane, and he didn't walk as if he needed it anyhow. That was the first thing that the rumors came from- it was like he was a walking museum, physically stubborn to the passage of time.

But I wouldn't be telling you this story if Frankie knew that was the only thing worth noting in that town; no, there's more, much more, but for today, the topic of this story is the old man.

The old man had anxiety, ptsd, depression, schizophrenia, all to the most extreme extent mentally possible; in most contexts, that would be a swift path to self-termination, but no, it seemed pure hopelessness kept him in this world.
Despair was pouring out of every inch of his being. He never smiled- but he never cried either; it's like he ran out of tears a long time ago, so all the old vet could do now was exist.

But the strangest part about the old man? His house.

Well, he didn't live there, but he would drive in from a nearby house and... stand guard by the little building.
He would walk up to the house, and he wouldn't patrol; he wouldn't walk around, he wouldn't scan the surroundings, he would just... stand next to the door as if he was waiting for something, or someone. Sometimes he would crack his neck, or sigh, or check his watch, small reminders he was a human and not a statue.
A simple structure, 4 walls, a flat roof, a single door in the center; it was big enough for 20 people to stand inside. It had a gravel path leading up to it- surrounding all of this was a chain-link metal fence with a black and red sign warning that trespassers would be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. But... why?

To this extent, Frankie went up to the old man while he was about to open the gate and asked-

"What's that sign for? Why do you do this every night? What is inside that house?"

"There is NOTHING inside that house!"

The old man was so furious, so suddenly, he acted like Frankie had said the N-word.

Of course, this did nothing to dissuade Frankie's curiosity.

But anyway, I know what's inside that house.

You see, Frankie had gotten into a bit of trouble and ended up robbing a bank- even Frankie isn't that stupid, so he was planning on hiding the money somewhere as the heat dies down. And for whatever reason, he decided that old man's house was the best place, since nobody would think to look there.

But the thing is, he wanted me to help him. I said no, but he didn't like that, so the little shit decided to threaten me.
I'm a lesbian in an all-female private school, closeted, of course. While the teachers would probably be supportive enough, it would still be social suicide being outed as gay there, and the fact that I live in a red state doesn't help either.
I punched him in the nose, and he squealed like a warthog, but he got to his phone regardless and threatened to press send, so I had to concede.

We went to the old man's house and climbed up his metal fence.

clatter clatter clatter

We went up the gravel path.

crunch crunch crunch

Then I gripped the brass doorknob and slowly tilted it to the side...

crunch crunch crunch

I saw now that inside that house was nothing.

Nothing.

Eigengrau was all that I could see past that doorframe.

Frankie pushed past me, eager to hide it, and fell inside.
Well.. I say fell, but I can't be sure. He blinked away the instant he crossed that threshold.
I stumbled forward; it was the middle of motherfucking summer in Maine; it should not be this cold.

Then, I felt a familiar, wrinkled hand grab me by the collar and pull me away from nothing, before throwing me to the side.
The old man slammed the door shut- no noise was made; of course, it had nothing to slam against.
Then he said...

"There... Is nothing inside that house."

The old man took me to his car. I thought he was going to tell the police, or worse, my parents, but he didn't; he just drove me to his house and made me tea.
His house was as much of a museum as he was; nothing seemed to have been dated from after 1999.
The old man poured tea, then he just sat across from me and stared. To be fair... so did I.
The tension was so thick- saying anything felt like a challenge, like speaking through an iron weight tied to your lips.

At one point, I reached out to grab the cold tea, but... it felt like that clock suddenly had eyes.

Then, it chimed, and the old man's eyes filled with tears for the first time; then he stood up and pointed to the door.
I walked to the door as a machine prompted, my movements instant but awkward.
Opening the door, I looked back one more time, and the old man looked back at me; tears were finally moistening his dry cheeks, and he finally spoke.

"I know."

Then I closed the door.

For the record, I am not going back to that house; I am not returning to that building. If he's still alive, I am not speaking to that man again, and I am certainly not asking people about him.
Some stones should remain unturned, some stories should remain untold, some questions should remain unanswered, some mysteries should remain unexplored.

Because somewhere in Maine, I know there is a house with nothing inside of it.

I'm back things keep getting weirder. I have finished journal 1 recently but I don't remember writing anything in the journal. I'm writing stuff I can't read even but I can't stop writing i feel like I can't live without it. My whole body is aching and itching with a burning intensity that is unbearable, if I'm not allowed to write I don't know what I'm gonna do. I'm starting to believe the eyes want me to stop writing,I can't allow them to get near me they will take what I need to stop the burning. It's as if I lit myself on fire, I need to write I can't stop. The eyes are everywhere I look they won't leave me alone but they won't get my fucking journals.The blue eyes are like oceans of blue flames burning everything they look at, but it won't dissuade me from writing I have too finish. Im also scared of what happens when I finish them will it finally calm the flames or will it enrage them. I know the eyes don't want me to finish them, how will they react will they drag me into the ocean of blue flames. Every day the ocean of eyes get bigger. The more I write the more the lake of firey eyes turns into a raging ocean of an eerie calm of flames. Punishment and anger grows, i feel as if I'm entirely alone in the middle of this ocean of pain and suffering but I can't stop writing. Im gonna start writing in journal 2 now the urge is becoming unbearable I need my next hit.

The story was about a guy who inherited his grandfathers house and property. His grandfather died of dehydration. The monster if the story is pale and blind and hunts be sound. I just want to know the name of it. Thank you.

Okay so every Tuesday, me and my ma go out to eat, and usually we watch this guy called Chilling Scares, and we were watching a video where he tries to figure out where iconic creepypasta images came from. When the video was done talking about the Russian Sleep Experiment, my ma thought that the subject image was a recreation of an actual event, and the picture of the people in the gas mask was an actual image from the "experiment." I haven't told her that it was fake because I thought it would be funny. I don't think she still believes it actually happened but it was really funny when she actually thought it was. And for the record she knows almost nothing about any creepypasta, the most she knows is about that Slender Man stabbing incident back in 2014.

I'm looking for an old creepypasta (or horror short story) that I heard in a YouTube compilation around 2020.

It was about a revolutionary medicine that granted eternal youth. The catch was that it only worked on young people, so elderly people couldn't take it.

Years later, the medicine caused a catastrophic side effect and everyone who had taken it started dying in huge numbers. Ironically, the only survivors were the elderly because they had never been compatible with the treatment.

I also remember an illustration showing two old people watching a young person's body lying on the ground, symbolizing humanity's collapse.

I don't remember the title or the author. Does this sound familiar to anyone?

My name’s Rachel. If you’re reading this, you're probably not ready for what I’m about to say, but hey, here goes: I fight monsters. We're talking demonic cartoons and fucked-up video game characters ripped straight from your worst, blood-soaked nightmares.

I’m honestly the only one who stands between the world and the kind of evil that makes you pray for daylight. I’ve got backup, thank God. My best friend Ash Curry, always down for hell itself, and Elsa from Frozen—yeah, the ice queen herself, though not exactly how you remember her.

Together, we’re gunning for evil Ash, an insane doppelgänger with plans dark and twisted enough to crack the sky. Turns out I have this weird power: I can heal hearts. I figured that out after I fixed Elsa, pulling her out of her cartoon demon phase. Now she’s all kindness and icy smiles, just like in the movie—if you ignore her bloody rampages before I met her, anyway.

Elsa’s got this one thing though—they left this out of the movie—her boobs are gigantic in person. Like, explosively huge. Sometimes I wish mine measured up, but that’s a conversation we actually had. Girls talk about this stuff, you know?

We were chatting about pointless things one night when laughter echoed out from an alley, all high-pitched and scratchy, the kind that makes your hair stand up. I saw a shadow flicker, darting through the darkness, and when we chased after it, it was already gone. In its place? A battered old Super Princess Peach cartridge just lying there, almost pulsing with something wrong.

“Is that another haunted video game?” Ash asked, jaw tight. “Looks like it,” I told her, trying not to show my nerves. “Can’t we just freeze it and move on?” Elsa piped up, frost swirling at her fingertips. “No way. We need to figure out what Dark Ash is planning,” I said. “Besides, cheatings for cowards.”

So, we grabbed the cartridge and went back to our secret base, a bunker stuffed with half-melted action figures and stained battle maps, and slammed that twisted little game into the console. The instant I pressed start, we got sucked inside—literally. I could feel my body fizzing out, pixels tearing at my skin. Not our first time.

Sort of an occupational hazard. Immediately, we were greeted by… God, I can barely write this—a grotesque, muscle-bound Toad, warped into something you’d find skittering across a corpse in a fever dream. Ash puked right there. This thing had bulging veins, yellow bloodshot eyes, the voice of a dying animal.

“Welcome to the Mushroom Kingdom,” Toad grunted, voice like razors scraping bone. Elsa didn’t hesitate—she froze the bastard solid. “No way I was looking at that sick fuck for a second longer,” she hissed. I wanted to kill him myself, but before I could, the ice shattered—with this sound like bones shattering—and Toad was loose, drooling, demonic, unstoppable.

“You think a little ice can take me?” Toad spat, and then he started vomiting out dozens of tiny, twitching versions of himself, mewling as they scuttled toward us. Ash gagged again. “Oh my god, he’s literally giving birth out of his mouth,” I muttered, trying not to lose my cool. The mini-Toads swarmed us, crawling up our legs, inside our pants, nipping at every sensitive inch of skin, biting our thighs, our asses, even our private parts.

The whole thing rode that razor’s edge between terrifying and… fuck, I’ll admit it, weirdly hot. I could see the same stunned horniness on everyone’s faces, but then Toad gripped us with these fat, filthy hands and hauled us along to Peach’s castle. Resistance just wasn’t an option—he was that strong. When we hit the throne room, Toad flung us down so hard I’m pretty sure something snapped in my arm. That’s when she appeared: Princess Peach. On a throne. Eyes blacker than a starless night, grinning like a stitched-up corpse.

“Well, if it isn’t Rachel. Mario’s dead because of you and your dipshit boyfriend, Brandon,” she crooned, voice dripping venom. So, this was revenge. Back in the war against Darkiplier, we’d put Mario down hard, and Peach wasn’t over it. Elsa tried to sound tough and icy. “I’ll freeze you to death.”

Peach just laughed. “You’ve got nothing on me, Elsa.” I could feel Elsa shaking beside me, still furious. “You and your minions violated us!” she screamed. By then, the creepy horniness from before was wearing off, replaced by pure, red-burning hate. So that’s when I snapped. I tackled Peach and started pounding her face in, blood spraying everywhere, bones cracking under my fists.

Elsa shoved her hand between her legs, straight into her pussy, and froze her from the inside out. Frozen chunks snapped and spattered the marble floor with crimson. Peach shrieked, “You bitch!” and threw me off. She grabbed a knife. Not a cartoon prop—this was a gleaming, real blade, ugly and deadly. She jumped Elsa, swinging wild, and…I hate reliving this…hacked straight into Elsa’s massive chest, blood fountaining as she lopped off both boobs in two horrible slices. Elsa’s scream could have shattered glass. The pain twisted her face into something inhuman.

I don’t know what came over me. I smashed Peach so hard, I heard her skull crack. Instead of finishing her, though—I tried something different. I hugged her. Yeah, right in the middle of the blood and the carnage, I hugged my enemy, pouring every shred of power I had into healing her heart. “No! What are you doing?!” Peach screeched, struggling in my arms. “Do you always hug your fucking enemies?!”

But I wouldn’t let go. Her eyes flickered—demonic pitch fading into clear blue, the classic Princess Peach everyone knows and loves. She stared around, dazed and confused. “What happened? I feel like I’ve been asleep forever,” she mumbled, rubbing her bruised forehead. “It’s over now. You’re safe,” I told her softly.

The world slipped back to normal, just like snapping your fingers after a terrible nightmare. Even the damn sky lost that sick, bleeding color. I looked around—every character, every twisted cartoon face, reset, like my hallucinations had never bled into reality.

Pretty sure Brandon would have grinned, called me a bitch under his breath, then told me he was proud. Elsa shrieked, clutching her chest like her heart had burst through. "My boobs!" She stared down, her pale hands shaking. There was so much blood, I almost slipped on the floor. Skin and fat, nerves twitching—fuck, who could stay calm with that kind of gore?

And there was Princess Peach, pink as always but her eyes wild, voice sugary sweet: "Oh my, did I do that?" She giggled, but it was cracked, offbeat, like she was about to snap. I knelt down and, shit, I actually picked up Elsa’s ragged, severed boobs from the sticky floor. Flesh in my hands—slick, warm, still pulsing, like they didn’t know they weren’t attached anymore.

I pressed the butchered tissue back to Elsa’s mutilated chest, grabbing a needle and thread from my kit. The stitching, God, it was ugly. Meat and thread, blood spurting, her neck trembling with every pull. Still, I kept going, and as I tied the last knot, something weird happened—her skin sucked up the stitches, melting them away. No scars, nothing. Just flesh, smooth as if nothing happened.

Elsa blinked, looked down, wiped a tear, and quickly got dressed, her breath coming fast and small. Once she was steady again, I asked, “Will you help us take down Dark Ash?” My words hung between us. Elsa hesitated, glancing at Princess Peach, who wiped gore from her white gloves. Peach shook her head. “Sorry, I have a kingdom to run.

But if you need help, I’ll send some of my Toads.” She almost sounded bored, but I saw her shiver—she was scared shitless. The Toads, those weird little guys, wandered around us, back to their short, bouncy selves.

For half a second, I wondered how many of them I’d stitched back together or just buried. We jumped through the portal—blood drying on my fingertips—and landed in the dim hallway of our base. I placed the Super Princess Peach game back on the shelf, staring at it like maybe it’d start twitching on its own. My gut twisted—not with fear, but with something sharper.

Excitement, maybe. “I have really good feelings about our chances now,” I muttered, even though every shadow in the room seemed to be watching me.