Scratch

Uberbumpoid.

This is a short version of a story called "Death of Night", made by me!
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Once there was a man called Germa, who lived in Draco, Edui, France. He lived in a house that is said to be unstable and falling down. He died in the living room chair. The next owners were appearantly haunted by ghosts, spirites, poltergiests, and demons. Plates and bowls would fly, windows would break, and spontaneous combustions would happen. They would also hear moans, vioces and screams during the night, and phantoms such as black cats with glowing red eyes. Once they heard a mysterious vioce, saying "My name is Germa. I died in the living room chair, my sole went to neither heaven nor hell, and I hunt the house from the day I died.". The owners left after 27 days of this supernatuaral hell - And if they stayed 8 days longer, they would of fell to their deaths.
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Longer version coming soon - But beware...

I'll post some from creepypastaindex.com.
Feel free to delete any swears I missed, mods.



I used to be fearless

I used to be fearless.

Horror movies never really scared me. Scary books had no effect. Haunted houses are meaningless. I was never a child who slept with the covers over their face, or with a night light. As a little girl, I never felt the need to crawl into bed with my mother after having a nightmare. I never really had nightmares to begin with, and the few that I did, most would never consider a nightmare at all.

I’ve simply never been afraid of what goes bump in the night. Our home security system kept away fears of very real humans with dark intentions, as did our rottweiler, aptly named Killer. As for threats outside the home, well, who could be afraid in a nice, white, upper class community? I’ve lived in a bland bubble all my life, never knowing what fear is.

So why should I ever be afraid of the dark?

Up until this moment, I haven’t been. I saw it as childish and illogical. Of course, I don’t feel that way anymore. I’m writing this to you now as a warning because it’s too late for me. I know that now, and it’s brought on a surreal sort of calm…When I finish warning you, it will be all over. So forgive me if I’m being long-winded…I enjoyed life a bit more than I was once willing to admit.

It all started with what I thought was a virus. I had been linked to a video called “Girls and Boys Come Out to Play.” It sounded harmless enough. I thought it was an art student’s film, perhaps. The person who had linked the video promised it was very good. Well worth watching.

I can’t remember the video. All I can remember is the feeling it brought up. It wasn’t fear, but it was close. I was uncomfortable. I was unnerved. I was also vaguely ill.

From then on, things only got worse. The background on my computer had changed to a picture of a disturbed looking young woman who stared at me from a black abyss. Every now and then, and growing more frequent by the day, strange noises would emit from my computer, even when the sound wasn’t on. Screaming, strange laughter, grinding noises…

At the time, I was annoyed; the fear hadn’t settled in quite yet. Then, the faces started popping up, like those ridiculous ‘screamers’ that scared my friends in high school. Yet these were different. They looked real. They were the faces of the dead; and they had died violent deaths.

I wish I could say that I stopped using the computer, but I couldn’t. My job requires me to use my computer frequently. What was I to do? I had no other computer available to me.

I tried to take it in to have the virus removed, but no one could help me. They said there wasn’t a virus. They said the computer was fine.

Meanwhile, it got worse. The faces weren’t just popping up; they would stay. And with those horrible, rotted eyes, they would hold my gaze. I couldn’t look away from them and their terrible, mocking grins. And oh, God…the smell. My computer forever had a vague stench of death around it.

I thought I was going crazy. I thought that perhaps someone was messing with me. The people at the computer repair place didn’t know what they were talking about. Something was wrong, but I knew that it had to be something very real that just had to be fixed.

So I got a new computer. Everything was fine for a while, but then it all came back, and in full force. Now there were voices. Now there was screaming. Now, the rotted faces showed their stinking bodies. I could see every maggot, every fly, every pus-filled crevice…And they were calling to me. Telling me that soon, very soon, I’d be joining them. They were so angry that I had tried to get rid of them, and now they would make me pay.

I didn’t know what to do. Ignoring the problem wasn’t working. I thought maybe it was the fault of a friend from work. Perhaps it came from the emails they had been sending me? I never thought it was the video. Not for a second. After all, that just wasn’t logical.

I was at the end of my rope. Today, I unplugged the computer and began packing. I would go on vacation, clear my head, and pray that everything would be back to normal.

A few minutes ago, I realized it would not. The power went out, and for the first time in my life, I felt true fear. I had no idea that in a few moments, it would become mind-numbing.

I stumbled through the house, looking for a flashlight, when I saw that something was still giving off light.

The computer.

The unplugged computer was on, and the woman in the background was moving. Beckoning me over.

I couldn’t help myself. I sat down across from her with the darkness caving in all around me. And then the woman, like all of the other images I’ve seen before, began to rot away. The whole scene rotted away, and then the screen went black. And without light, without a means of seeing my reflection, I saw her behind me for the briefest of moments, a bloody and rusted knife in hand. The computer came back to life, and my old background had returned.

But I know it’s not over.

So I’ve decided to come here. I know you all like to be scared, right? Well, take it from someone who has only very recently known fear: it’s not always worth it, and not everything is fun and games.

Of course, you probably wont believe me. Why should you?

The thing is…I haven’t been completely honest with you. There was no video. It was a story. A story quite similar to this one, though with subtle plot differences and perhaps better story telling. I know all of you like stories that might give you a good scare. That’s probably why you started reading mine.

Now that you’ve read this, you’ll share my fate. I know it’s cruel, and perhaps unfair, but it has to be done. I just hope that you can take comfort in knowing that when I’m the woman haunting your computer, I’ll be a bit more gentle. If I can, I’ll use a blade that’s a little less dull. Pictures of those who came before us who are a little less grotesque. Sounds that are a little less alarming.

But then again, you DO like to be scared, right?

Don’t worry. I wont ask you to repost this story five times. Nothing will save you. After all, nothing could save me.

The power is still out. And I know, behind me, the woman is waiting for me. I’ll see you very soon.

Goodbye for now.

The Song and Dance Man

There are few now left alive who remember the Song and Dance Man. Time has claimed the ones that survived the long night and I’m sure they went willing to meet their maker. Life takes on a strange tint after a night like that.

The ones still left, Bill Parker, Sarah Carter, Sam Tannen, they don’t talk about it. Sam is lucky. His brains started to turn to porridge a few years back and now he has trouble figuring out how to put on his pants. He got an early reprieve from his memories. He doesn’t wake up night after night, the music still playing in his ears, tears still drying on his cheeks.

The Song and Dance Man came to Belle Carne with little fanfare in the fall of 1956. I had just gotten out of high school and was working as a stockboy at Handy’s Hardware. I was there the afternoon that Sarah Carter burst through the door, making the bell over the door jingle like mad.

“George, you gotta see what’s been set up by the bandstand. There’s this huge tent up and this man standing in front of it yellin’ like a carnival barker.” Sarah was out of breath and obviously had run from the park and all the way down Main Street. Her hair was whipsawed every which way and one strand stuck to the end of her nose. She gave a quick puff and blew it out of the way and waited for me to react. With Sarah, I was always two steps behind and running to catch up. Girl had energy in those days and in an unlimited supply.

I stopped rearranging the nails and said, “There wasn’t anythin’ up there when I walked by this mornin’. When’d it go up?”

She shrugged her shoulders, a quick raise and drop, “Dunno, but it’s up. And you gotta see this guy. He’s all dressed up, head to toe and he can talk. Boy, can he talk.”

I thought about and checked the clock. It was near about 5 and time for me to quit anyway. “All right, let’s go check it out then.”

Sarah grinned from ear to ear and was gone. I didn’t doubt she was telling everyone in the gang, the ones that were still in town anyway. Most of us scattered to the four winds after graduation. Only a handful of us remained in town and only a handful of us were on hand to witness the dance.

I walked down to bandstand by myself, not bothering to wait for the others. Most likely Sarah was already there waiting for us. I met up with Bill as I passed the drugstore, where he worked as a soda jerk. “What the hell is Sarah talkin’ about George? She blew in here and then blew out again before I could ask her anything.” Bill was a big guy, tallest (and heaviest) guy in our class and I just about cracked up the first time I saw him wearing that little peaked paper cap McCleary makes his soda jerks wear. Bill doesn’t really like to be laughed at though and after the knot under my eye went down, I made sure not to laugh at him anymore.

He’s a good guy aside from that temper. He was the best guy on the highschool basketball team too, though he’s one of the few guys who got kicked out of a game. Threw another player halfway down the court. And they were on the same team too. Bill said the other guy elbowed him in the gut. Had to have been an accident, no one would have done it on purpose.

We both walked down the street, Bill smoking a cigarette, a habit that caught up to him in 1995 when they removed his right lung. At the end of Main Street, we crossed Buchanan and entered the park. Normally, at that point, we would have been able to see the bandstand, perched on a hill near the center of the park. During the summer, there’d be concerts: performances by the school marching band, a church choir singing some hymns, that kind of thing. Once a couple of kids from the high school had put together a pretty good rockabilly group, but somehow the parks committee passed an ordinance that banned rock ‘n’ roll in the park. Small towns, you know?

But now, there was a huge, faded yellow tent blocking the bandstand, like the kind in the circus or the kinds those old revival ministers like to use when they’re feelin’ the spirit and they like to feel your wallet too.

There was already a pretty large crowd around the tent and as Bill and I got closer, we could hear the fellow that Sarah had told us about. He sounded like a carnival barker all right. Bill and I walked faster down the path that lead to the tent. We pushed our way through the crowd, up toward the tent and where we thought the man was.

“Come on everybody, it’s getting’ close, getting’ close, we’re goin’ to have ourselves a heckuva time tonight, yes indeed, a HECKUVA time. We’ll be singin’, we’ll be dancin’ I PROMISE that and the Song and Dance Man always keeps his promises!”

We still couldn’t see him, still too many people were blocking the way. It looked like the whole town had shown up to see the Song and Dance Man. Bill tugged on my sleeve and pointed. I followed his finger and got bug eyed. It was Reverend Harper, the Baptist minister. I’ve lived a good long time, but I ain’t ever seen a man that could thump a Bible harder than he. Harper preached against the evils of sin; sin in drinking, sin in smoking reefer, sin in smoking tobacco, sin in lying and most of all, sin in dancing. And here he was lining up to get inside the tent too, ‘cause he certainly wasn’t preaching. We waved at him, Bill waving with the hand that held the cigarette and that old Baptist turned red as the Red Sea and turned and walked away. Bill and I grinned at each other and kept on walking toward the front and toward the Song and Dance Man.

Finally we broke through the crowd and there he was. He stood on an old crate, splintered and lookin’ like it was on the verge of collapsing under his feet. On the grass beside him lay a black fiddle case with gold trim along its edges. It looked old, older than the crate, older than the town. It seemed like something ancient.

He was all angles, all knees, elbows and shoulders. Tall and gangling, his body moving and bopping to the rhythm of his words. He wore a red and white pin-stripe jacket, looking like he belonged in a barber shop quartet. A straw hat sat on his head, always getting pushed back or pulled forward by his long fingered hands. Long, six fingered hands. I started when I saw that. I had read that it some folks are born with six fingers, but readin’ about something and seein’ it are two different things.

His eyes just about flashed blue lightning as he spoke and sparks nearly flew from those white teeth. And he just never stopped talking. Not for breath, not for questions, not for anything. Just kept up that patter like his very soul depended on it.

“All right, all right, all right, we’re getting’ close, getting’ real close, yes we are. Are you ready to dance? Are you ready to sing? Cause I’m ready to play my fiddle, yes I am, yes I am. Gotta fiddle at my feet and I’m ready to play. Ready to make those strings SING, can you believe it?”

He’s clap his hands and that’s as close to a pause he was willing to do.

Sarah and Sam came up to us now, having found us in the crowd. Sarah elbowed me in the rib and said, “What’d I tell you? Looks like he should be in a carnival tryin’ to get us in to see the bearded lady or somethin’.”

Sam nodded his head in greeting to us, which caused his glasses to slide down his nose and he gave them a short push back up to where they belonged. He was as tall as Bill, but nowhere near as built. He was the smart guy in our gang. You had to have someone like him around to tell how to do things like take apart the principal’s car and rebuild it in the school gym. Not that we ever did anything like that.

“What’s he sellin’?” asked Sam.

“A dance, I figure,” I said.

“What’s it cost?”

The Song and Dance Man must have heard him because he said, “What does it cost I hear you ask? Why it don’t cost a dollar and it don’t cost a quarter and it don’t cost a dime. Folks, this will cost you nothin’, just get on in and dance to the song all night long.”

We all looked at each other. Good deal. A little free music and space to dance? There wasn’t much to do in town back in those days and there still isn’t. This was almost too good to be true.

The Song and Dance Man stopped now, a minor miracle in and of itself. He dug deep into his pocket, pulled out a gold watch and checked the time. And then he grinned a grin that must have shown every one of his teeth. He repocketed the watch and said, “Folks, it’s time for the dance so come on in. Come on in, everyone because it’s time for the dance to begin.” And with that, he hopped down from his crate, grabbed it up with the fiddle and darted through the tent flaps.

Sarah, Bill, Sam and I nearly got mowed over in the rush to get inside, but we were still the first ones in. We stopped short when we pushed aside those big old tent flaps, but were quickly driven inside.

It was huge inside. There was a hardwood floor beneath our feet that looked like it must be oak, a dark, dark oak polished to a mirror shine. There were candles in holders all along the tent-pole posts and when I looked up, I couldn’t see the ceiling for all the darkness. It was like looking up at a starless night sky, where the moon didn’t dare show her face.

The crowd kept driving us and more and more people poured in. It wasn’t just the young people either. There was Missus Crenshaw, our Junior year English teacher who was in her fifties. There was Mr. Hoskins the principal. There was the good old Revered Harper, still looking embarrassed, but also like he couldn’t help himself. It really was the whole * town. Hell, even the mayor was there with his wife, standing and talking with the chief of police.

Soon everyone was inside and the murmur from all the talking was nearly deafening. It was already getting warm in there and I was feeling cramped and claustrophobic. We were all looking for the Song and Dance Man, to see where he had gone. No one looked up, so no one saw him until the first pull of his fiddle bow.

He was there, on the center tentpole, sitting on a small, wooden platform, about twenty feet off the floor. God knows how he got up there, because there certainly wasn’t any ladder goin’ up. He dangled his feet over the edge and held his fiddle in one hand and the bow in the other. The fiddle and bow seemed to be made of that same dark wood that the floor was and gleamed in the candlelight like a thing alive. I almost doubted that the fiddle even needed the Song and Dance Man to make its strings hum.

We all looked up at him and he grinned and jumped to his feet while the crowd gasped, worried he might plummet into their midst.

And then he began to play.

He made those strings sing. I haven’t heard anyone play like that before or since and I thank God for that every day. It made the air around us crackle and spark. It loosened the joints and jolted the mind. You felt the urge to move deep in the bone, buried in the marrow. I grabbed Sarah’s hands and we began to move across the floor and everyone followed suit. Some with partners and some without. Some doing the foxtrot, some doing a waltz and some of us doing the twist. We dance, moved, shucked, jived, rocked and rolled.

I passed Reverend Harper moving his feet in a clunky boxstep with Eloise Grendel, an old battle-axe of a Catholic. I saw the mayor’s wife waltzing with Dan Adams, one of our firemen.

I swirled with Sarah, moving across the floor, bumping and jostling with the people around us. It was hot and getting hotter in there and it wasn’t long before it smelled of sweat and bodies moving against bodies. I felt dizzy, but we kept dancing together, kept dancing and not stopping. It was awhile before I realized that the Song and Dance Man was singing too, but in a language I didn’t understand.

He lorded over us, standing on that platform, making his fiddle sing and sing. His bow rose and fell, slid back and forth, side to side. He played like he talked. No breaks, no pauses, just a manic deluge of tunes while his tongue curled around words that had no business being said in this world.

I gave my head a shake as I spun with Sarah and I realized my legs were tired. My feet ached and my lower back was beginning to throb. I checked my watch and realized we had been dancing for a solid hour. I shook my head again, trying to shake off the dozy feeling that was clouding my thinking.

“Sarah,” I cleared my throat. I had only spoken in a whisper. My tongue felt thick and funny. I tried again, “Sarah.” Louder this time, but she still didn’t respond and we kept dancing. I shook her, but she didn’t respond. I kept shaking her until I realized I was doin’ it in time with the music.

So I just tried to stop. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop.

Underneath the fog, I began to feel frightened. I began to see the faces of the other people now. I saw their terror. Reverend Harper’s face had grown redder than it had been before. Sweat poured down his face, but still he kept moving, twirling Missus Grendel around and around, her head lolling from side to side. She had fainted, but her feet were still moving. We moved past Bill who danced with Susie Watkins and I saw her frightened eyes darting around the room, but Bill bobbed his head in time with music and his glassy eyes looked at nothing in particular.

The Song and Dance Man laughed from his perch and kept playing, tapping his feet. His eyes were glowing in that dark, humid place. Glowed and glowed and light glanced off the bow with each sweep.

I heard a scream and swiveled my head to watch a woman drop to the floor holding her leg. She had cramped up. I was envious. She got to stop. She got to rest. My own legs felt like dead wood and the ache in my back had deepened.

Then her partner stepped on her ankle and I heard the crunch from across the room. He was still dancing, his eyes blank and empty as he moved. She screamed again and started to crawl away, but began to stand up instead. She started to dance, bringing her weight down on the broken ankle. Again and again and again. I turned away, but I couldn’t block the sound of her sobbing.

The music ran on.

I checked my watch again and it was three hours now. We didn’t flag. Didn’t falter. We kept up the same speed as the fiddle. The damning fiddle. Rapping our feet against the floor. Never mind the blisters that burst. Never mind broken toes or broken ankles. Never mind that deep pain buried in the spine that refused to go. Never mind old hearts and bad knees.

We kept up that frantic pace as one mass: a bobbing, thumping, jumping creature with one mind.

Reverend Harper died at one point. I watched it happen. He was holding up the still fainted Missus Grendel (whose feet still moved with the music) when he dropped her. And then fell to the floor. He twitched once, his feet beating a quick, staccato rhythm and then was still. Missus Grendel got back up and kept on moving. I watched Harper as I danced, trying to see if he was breathing.

He wasn’t. I swear to you he wasn’t. But he still got back up. He was dead, but he still got back and began to dance again. He turned to look at me, and he grinned the Song and Dance Man’s grin. His eyes were red, filled with blood from whatever had broken in his brain. I watched as a single red tear rolled down his cheek.

I shut my eyes and kept moving.

Harper wasn’t the last. He probably wasn’t the first. The old and the sick were the first to drop. Exhaustion, heart attacks, hemorrhages somewhere deep inside, they died. And then they got back and kept dancing, grinning their grins.

I passed Sam and Lizzie. He had lost his glasses at some point. His eyes darted around, terribly aware. I looked at his leg and I saw a jut of bone tearing through his denim jeans. There was a trail of blood behind him and as he swirled, a spray landed on the legs of the people around him. He stepped on that broken leg, twirled on it, jumped on it. All in time with that fiddle.

The night passed.

I remember stepping on something at one point and realizing I had just crushed Missus Dempsey’s right hand. She was lying on her back on the dance floor. She had been stepped on time and again. I could even see a man’s shoeprint on her stomach. Her head had been caved in, her chest beneath her dress had a sunken look. And still she was trying to get up to keep moving.

The smell of blood mixed with the sweat and I couldn’t breathe anymore. The air was thick and from all around I could hear cries, screams, but nothing that drowned out the fiddle or the Song and Dance Man’s singing.

And then it stopped. I danced one more step and then stopped myself. I looked up at the platform. We all did, craning our necks upward. He was checking his pocket watch.

“All right folks! That’s all for tonight! The dancing is done and the morning has come. You may leave if you can walk and you should walk quick cause this Song and Dance Man is gonna be gone.”

We all stood there, like stunned cattle. And then marched to the tentflaps. No one ran, because they couldn’t. It was a miracle we could walk. Sarah stepped ahead of me and left, but I stayed behind. I turned and looked. And saw at least twenty people still standing there. Harper was among them. They were all grinning, their eyes empty. They stood and made no sign of wanting to leave.

“Go on now friend, the Song and Dance Man has what he wants, but he’d be glad to add you too if you tarry and dally too long.” I looked up at him and saw him smile. And then I turned my back to him and left the tent. When I turned back again it was gone along with the people inside.

That’s the story of what happened. The others won’t tell it or pretend it never happened. Never mind the 21 people that vanished that night, the mayor’s wife included. They’d rather not think about it.

Sarah and I took Sam to the hospital over in the next county, far from folks that knew what had happened, where they had to remove his leg. Sam was quiet before and was quieter still after, pulling odd jobs that a one-legged man could do. Doesn’t move around much nowadays, just sits on his porch, a cane across his lap and massages the stump with his hand. Says it bothers him on cold nights. And warm nights. And wet nights and dry nights.

Bill left and joined the army, stayed in long enough to fight in Vietnam and won a bunch of medals. Came back and settled down to drink and drink hard and if you want to find him, you can find him in Eddie Dixon’s bar. No matter how drunk he gets though, he doesn’t talk about that night.

None of us saw much of Sarah after. She came through the best, but that’s how she always was. She left and went to college, but like Bill, she got pulled back to Belle Carne. She teaches over at the high school now, teaching English to the Juniors.

And I stayed here, plugging away at the hardware store. I ran it for a while, but now I don’t do much of anything. Just sitting around with Sam on his porch, talkin’ about things sometimes. Though not often. Because if I stay too late, stay too long, I’ll see his eyes go glassy behind those coke-bottle lenses and he’ll disappear into himself. And I’ll catch him humming a faint trace of a song and the hairs on my neck stand on end and goosebumps rise on my arms in great knots.

And my foot will start to tap out a small beat on the hardwood porch and a big wide grin will spread across Sam’s face. The grin of the Song and Dance Man.

Wrong Place, Wrong Time

Sam was a hard-working man. Sam had a family; a wife named Annie, and a son named Henry. Henry was just an infant, three months old to be exact, but his father wanted the best life possible for him. The only problem was the family’s finances. Sam worked two jobs, but it hardly put any food on the table. At one point, he couldn’t afford diapers for his son, so he stooped to stealing.

He drove far from his home, so far that Annie would never find out about it. He came to a small town he had never seen. It had a worn sign at the entrance. It read: “Welcome to Cherry Coast.”
‘Cherry Coast?’ Sam thought. ‘What a strange name for a town.’ There were few streetlights. There were lights on in the houses. He could see people watching TV, and eating dinner through their curtains. Something about the place just creeped him out, though. He felt he should just turn back. Go home and do odd jobs until he could make ends meet. No. He couldn’t return with nothing. His wife and child needed a stable home.

He came to an empty house. He assumed people lived there, due to the fact that he saw food in the kitchen and normal everyday furniture. There was also a doghouse with a toy bone in front of it. ‘They must be out.’ He reasoned. He got out of the car. He had no attention of hurting anyone. He just needed food for his family. The window on the side of the one-story house was cracked a bit. He looked around, just to make sure no one was watching, and opened it completely. He leaped inside.

He found himself in the living room. No lights were on. He hadn’t thought ahead enough to bring a flashlight, so he flipped on a lamp. He wasn’t an expert thief, so he knew he was making many stupid mistakes. His hands were shaking, and his heart was beating like the wings of a hummingbird. He hurried into the kitchen. There, he took a box of rice, a box of pasta, a frozen chicken, and a stalk of celery. The owner’s of course would notice, but they probably wouldn’t miss it that much.

He was in the clear. As he entered the living room, he saw a little girl crouched against the far wall, weeping. His heart jumped. He didn’t expect anyone to be home. The girl didn’t seem to notice him. She just continued to sob loudly. She wore a white nightgown, with spaghetti straps. Her hair was golden and slightly wavy. He crept past her towards the window. His eyes never leaving his destination. He gripped the strap of his bag tightly, making sure he had what he came for. He pushed the window up more, because somehow it was opened only a crack again.

“What are you doing here?” The girl’s voice came as a raspy whisper. Suddenly she was next to him, standing up straight, dried tears on her cheeks. Sam backed away from the window. He should’ve just jumped out and ran, but her face startled him. She looked normal, but something about her made a chill run down his spine.

“I-I’m sorry. I just needed food. Please. I have a child.” Her expression didn’t change. She stared blankly at Sam.

“Leave. You shouldn’t have come here. Especially not tonight.” A low thud came from the back room. They both looked in the direction it came from. The girl looked worriedly back at Sam. “Go. It’s already too late. You shouldn’t have come.” Sam ran to his car. The girl shut the window behind him. He quickly drove back home. Annie and Henry were sleeping when he got there. He was exhausted, so he passed out right next to his wife.

Eight years passed, and Sam forgot all about Cherry Coast. Over time he began to believe it was all a dream. Of course, there was no evidence that it actually happened, especially since the food he took wasn’t in his bag when he awoke the next morning. Soon after the incident, Sam was noticed for his knack for designing buildings, and he became an architect. His family now lived in a house he designed, and they had plenty of money to buy anything they could possibly ask for.

Henry was a happy little child. He had a closet full of toys he never played with. He went to a private school. His friends were always amazed when they came to visit. Life was good. One night, Sam tucked in his son, kissed him on the forehead, and read him a story. He left the room. Henry’s nightlight shone dimly next to his bed. He began to drift off to sleep, as he did every night. He suddenly felt someone climbing onto the edge of his bed. He was paralyzed with fear. His mother or father wouldn’t do that without warning him.

His eyes shot open, only to see a teenage girl grinning down at him. He wanted to scream but couldn’t. She grinned wider. She stood up, and paced around the room. She had long, wavy blonde hair, and she wore a leather jacket, blue tank top, and tight gray jeans. She turned to Henry.

“Don’t fear me.” Her voice was a raspy whisper. Henry didn’t dare fear her.

“Who-Who are you?” The girl suppressed a fit of laughter and sat on the bed. Her eyes a piercing shade a gray, and she seemed to have no emotion of any sort. Henry tried yelling for help, but nothing came out.

“Don’t try to scream. Your parents can’t hear you.” He finally found the courage to speak. “Are you a ghost?” He said, terrified. She cackled. What a silly question. Henry was just wondering why his parents couldn’t hear her.

“Of course not. Your parents can’t hear me, because I’m not as loud as you think.” She smirked, began to pace again. “I had parents once. Then they DIED!” She let out this maniacal laughter that made Henry’s blood run cold. She wasn’t finished yet. “I’ve met your father before. He came to my house one night. Coincidentally that was the night my parents died.” She paused. She felt no sadness or remorse. “I was your age when it happened. I wished something upon them and it happened. Whatever I wished for came true. I wished for them to die, and they did. The only problem was, I couldn’t control WHOM I wished this death upon. I saw your father, but it was already too late.”

“What are you talking about?” Henry squeaked, clutching his covers up to his chin. She gripped his shoulder with an icy hand. “You heard me. Your parents are going to die Henry. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With that, she was gone. Just as quickly as she came, she left. Henry lay awake the remainder of the night, too afraid to move, sleep, or breathe for that matter.

The next night it happened. Sam and Annie didn’t come into Henry’s room to tuck him in that night. He got out of bed, wondering what was taking them so long. They usually came in to read him a story right after dinner. He slowly walked into their room, only to see his parents hanging side by side from the chandelier. The girl from Cherry Coast returned soon after. Henry was crouched in a corner, sobbing.

“I’ll take care of you. I wish only the best for you.” She held out her icy hand.

"I had parents once. Then they DIED!" I smell a meme.

Animeboy975 wrote:

You wanted it, and it is:The Dream Master!
NOTE:If you have watched/read Shugo Chara, you wouldn't get any of this.

The Dream Master
Easter is making it's new CD, the Dream Master. The CD was the highest produced CD of al time, Nobody ever headed out to see why it was made.

After that year, people recorded/found out that year was the year with the most child deaths in Japan,most coming from the city Easter is in.

The song was banned quickly because the song had children aboslutley losing thier minds. They would escape their house/apartment/condo the dangerous way they could.

Even though most of them actually never died from that, it was still a big problem. They would go to the most dangeorous place there.

The X Eggs would come out quickly. A year later, The Gaurdians of Seiyo Academy decided to see what was up with the CD.

They went,and found the song was made with 4 X eggs instead of Black Diomand having 1.

Did you think that was good? And yes it used "die" alot. -.-

What do you think?

i had parents once. Then they DIED!

CAN'T STOP SAYING IT AFTER YOU READ 'THE WRONG PLACE, WRONG TIME! :3

samid11 wrote:

CosmicProjectz wrote:

I just read Cupcakes too.


My nickname is Pinkie Pie, even though I'm a guy 0_o

"HOW WOULD YOU LIKE IT IF I JUST CAME TO YOUR HOUSE AND FELL ASLEAP, DASHIE?!"

BEST. SCARY. PINKIE. QUOTE. EVER.

yesh!!! :DDDD

poor rainbow dash. D:



who wants pony soup? 

helltank wrote:

I have yet to find a creepypasta that truly keeps me awake at night, without the need for shocking picturers.

Me too.  I'm not scared by scary stories, but I like to read them.

trekkie2000 wrote:

Ok, I dont get it. What is it with ppl and MLP? Its a CHILDREN'S show yet I know kids in my middle school and even a few in high school that watch it.
This is either some sort of inside joke that I dont get

Or today's children are more pathetic than I anticipated.

+1

Scratch Horror Story

Hi. This is a story about me, Lellowsfuzz.
I'm just a regular forum user like all of you.
One day, I was searching the mass scary story thread, and I found some user called Fear, and he posted this: "THE ONLY THING YOU HAVE TO FEAR IS FEAR ITSELF"
So I was like, "Some lame FDR quote."
Now, I never get scared about these stories, but after I read that quote, something in my head clicked. These scary stories were freaking me out.
Later that night, I shut off the computer and got in bed.
And that's when the nightmares started.
Each night, I was experiencing these stories in my head, and I did NOT like it. And what's worse: the stories seemed more realistic by the night.
A week later, I couldn't take it any more.
I was depressed.
So, I did it.
I jumped out of my window, almost killing myself.
As I was about to hit the ground, I froze.
Literally.
I couldn't move, and I was hanging in thin air.
A flash came, and every scary story flashed by my eyes. I stared in horror as I watched murder after murder, suicide after suicide, and corpse after corpse.
Finally, everything started slowing down.
I was in some kind of space with no light. I looked down, and I couldn't see myself.
I wasn't even there.
Instinctively, some force pulled me towards the computer screen.
I looked at it, and I saw the mass scary story thread.
And then I typed this post.

This is actually me.
Some lowly guy who got sucked into a website.
Literally.
And my only way to get around is for you scum who call yourselves users to read this.
And then I make my escape into your head.
You might think, "Well, this is just some story, nothing to be scared about."
Just remember:
THE ONLY THING TO FEAR IS FEAR ITSELF

owetre18 wrote:

^ nice.

Thanks! 

Unfinished Story

"It was a beautiful day; the sun was peeking out behind the clouds just a bit, only to let out just a smidget of light, but just enough that it was bright enough to play in grandmother's garden. Olivia and Desmond ran outside and lay down in the glistening grass and giggled.
'That cloud looks like a rabbit!' Desmond shouted.

Olivia laughed and replied, 'I think it looks like a pair of scissors.'

They sat up looked to the door, where their cat, Goldfish, was chasing a spider outside. Goldfish pounced on the spider, and cupped it's gray paws over it. It played with the spider, and smacked it around a bit.

'Goldfish,' Olivia scolded, 'if you're going to play with the spider, be nice!'

Goldfish seemed to listen, but went back to batting the spider around. Olivia sighed, but turned to Desmond and smiled. They decided to play hide and seek.

'Eight...niiiine...ten! Ready or not, here I come!' Desmond ran through the bushes and trees, crouching down to look for Olivia. He knew that she couldn't climb trees, so it would be possible that she was behind or underneath something. Suddenly, there was noise behind him.

'Olivia! I can hear you!' He chuckled. "I'm gonna turn around!'

He whipped around and expected to see her scrambling to climb the big tree behind him, upside down with her blonde hair dangling below her.

'Olivia?'"
Parker yawned. That was enough writing for the day. He turned off the computer and curled up onto the bed.

"Olivia..." The name echoed in his head. He sat up, and a cold chill went up his spine. He felt the urge to change his horror story and just end it happily. It was a very strange feeling, like someone was threatening him... He sat on the computer chair again and stared at the screen.

"I know Olivia's not hurt...right, Parker?"

Last edited by samurai768 (2011-10-02 12:52:56)

A self-written one:

Once, when a boy was brushing his teeth, he saw that there were fingerprints on his mirror. He decided to wipe them off, so he put down his brush and wiped them, but they wouldn't come off.

They were from the other side of the mirror.

The Portraits
A hiker was tired. He was afraid of poison ivy if he laid down. He saw a cabin surrounded by trees expect for the entrance, so he decided to rest there for the night.
Once he got there, there were tons of portraits on the wall. It seemed like the scowling, angered faces were looking right at him. It was hard, but he fell asleep.

When he woke up, there were no more portraits. Just windows.