Princess | A Creepypasta


Ever wondered if things can just be born evil? In this enlightened age of ours, concepts like good and evil are often painted as outmoded, archaic even. According to modern thought, people (animals too, obviously) are simply products of their environment and no more responsible for their actions than a twig in a stream. But I know better. Some things are just born bad.

About ten years ago, we had a German shepherd named Duchess that had a litter of puppies – seven in all. Six looked like any other shepherd you’ve ever seen, the seventh was a snowy white. Not a true albino, just white-furred with a black nose and blue eyes.

There was never any doubt about which one we were keeping out of that litter. We named her Princess.

Before the end of six months, any plans we had about giving away or selling the others became a moot point, as all of the others were dead. We’d just find them at a rate of about one a month, not mangled or anything, just dead as if they’d died in their sleep. At first, we thought maybe their mother, it being her first litter and all, was accidentally crushing or smothering them.

Later, we had no doubt as to what had killed them.

Within a year, she came to dominate her mother, her father (tough old alpha that he was), and to a degree, us too. Her parents shied away from her. When we put out their food, she ate till her heart’s content, unchallenged by the other two. Once I tried to shoo her away and let the other two eat. She snarled at me, baring those perfect white fangs to her incongruously black gums and loosing a growl so deep that I felt it in my guts more than heard it.

After that, I left her alone too.

I’ve often wondered if the parents of serial killers know they have a monster in the making. I mean, sure, some of them are to blame for how their kids turn out, products of fucked up households with systematic abuse of all possible flavors, but then there are the ones that seem to be true aberrations. It’s those families I’m curious about. Do they smile and laugh and pretend that everything’s fine?

I know that we sure did. We downplayed the weirdness around Princess, tried to rationalize her behavior, the bizarre things she’d do, like killing rabbits and leaving them hung up in the bushes behind our house.

“Some dogs do that to show they love you, cats too,” my father would say. “To them, it’s just bringing you food.”

To me, it looked like she was taunting us. Just like the puppies years earlier, not one of those rabbits ever had a mark on it.

Princess, just like her mom and dad, was well looked after and never hurt for a meal, so it wasn’t as if she were hunting for food. Her innumerable kills were always untouched. No, the only thing I ever saw her eat was a kitten.

We had some feral cats in the woods around our house and one momma cat had a litter in our tool shed. “Feral” really is stretching it; most of them were tame enough to be petted, this momma being among them. I returned home from school one day and headed around back to look in on them.

The door to the shed was open and inside I found Princess, her jaws pink from her feast. As she devoured that last kitten, her beautiful blue eyes never left mine.

The momma we found displayed on what I’d come to think of as the “rabbit bush.”

The tipping point came that same year when we found her sire dead. He was the best dog we’d ever had, that we ever will have. We woke one Saturday morning to find him in the backyard lying dead without a mark like so many rabbits before him. I can count the number of times I ever saw my father cry on one hand. That was one of them.

That was also when we found out how she killed so cleanly: she strangled her prey. Like a jaguar. The fur at her father’s neck was still wet with her saliva.

We spent that morning burying that good old faithful dog, and then he sent me and my mom away on some pretense. No words were spoken, but there was no doubt about what he intended to do.

I’m sure that there are some of you reading this that will find the notion of putting an animal down to be abominable, but what other options did he have, really? Take her to an animal shelter? Give her to some other family? Who could do that and go to sleep with a clear conscience?

As it turned out, we weren’t getting any sleep that night regardless of our decision.

We spent that afternoon at my uncle’s house. Once when I came in from playing to get a glass of water, I overheard my mom telling my uncle that she sometimes wondered if the dog was possessed or something. I’d sometimes wondered the same thing. Later that evening not long before sunset, we got a call from dad. Apparently, the deed was done.

By the time we arrived home, he’d already washed up and changed clothes, but there was little he could have done to hide his wounds, even less to hide the haunted look in his eyes. Both his arms and one leg were bandaged and that was bad enough, but what’s stuck with me all these years later was just how terrified he looked. It wasn’t until I’d actually been through combat that I recognized that expression – it’s how men look after they’ve stared death straight in the face.

My father never talked about it, but he’d drafted a friend from up the street to come help, and it’s from him that I get this part of the story.

Princess was many things – bloodthirsty and evil chief among them – but stupid wasn’t among them. In that, if nothing else, she took after her father. Her dad, Rocky, was famous for letting himself into the house if it was storming out. He’d figured out how to paw open the sliding glass door out to the patio. What was really astounding is that he also had the presence of mind to close it behind him.

Not being stupid, she knew something was up and made herself scarce, disappearing into the woods. Dad, not wanting to put this off and being in full-on revenge mode, called his friend from down the road and filled him in, so off on the hunt the two of them went.

In his own words, “She was laying for us.”

If it sounds absurd to say that Princess lay in ambush, then I’ve failed at conveying just how wrong everything about her truly was. She led them on a chase through those woods, barking whenever it seemed the stupid humans had lost her again. Then she laid up beneath an overhang on the creek bank just where the path crossed it and waited.

She was on my father the instant he stepped down into the creek, grabbing his leg and making him fall headfirst into the water. Then she went straight for his throat. My dad had already lost his rifle at that point and he grabbed her with both hands to try to fend her off, wrestling with 115 pounds of teeth, claws, and muscle in a foot and a half of water, Princess savaging his arms all the while.

At some point, he managed to work his legs up between him and the dog and kick her away from him, providing his friend with a clean shot, which he took, catching Princess through the chest. He put a second round through her head point blank. He then helped my dad back home and to the emergency room, telling him he’d go back to see after Princess once they got home.

“She can rot where she is,” was all my dad had to say on that subject.

After they got back from the hospital, our neighbor went back on his ATV to pick up Princess for burial. He was a dog lover like us and it just didn’t seem right to him to leave her. If he’d spent as much time tiptoeing around as we had, he might have felt differently.

“She flat wasn’t there,” he said. “No blood trail. Nothin.” He also said that after he’d been there poking around for a few minutes, he noticed something else strange – no birds. It was dead quiet the way the woods sometimes get right before a bad storm blows in. Wisely, he got right the hell out of there.

There was a storm coming, all right.

That night, Duchess came pawing at the back door wanting in, something she’d never once done in all the time she’d been with us, and I had a dream.

In it, I was playing football in the backyard with some buddies and ran over to where a bad throw had landed near Rocky’s grave. As I reached for it, Princess’s head shoved up out of the ground to grab my hand. I woke up with a jolt and was promptly scared out of roughly ten more years of life by the silhouette of a German shepherd in the hallway.

It was Duchess, of course. She was sitting in the hallway whining and wagging her tail nervously. She was looking back toward the front of the house. I walked over to her and placed my hand on her big doggy head and said, “What is it, girl?”

That’s when I heard the distinctive sound of claws on glass. Something was pawing at the patio door.

Thoroughly terrified, I grabbed Duchess by the collar and dragged her along with me to my parents’ room, shutting the door behind me. I was 14, I was terrified, but even in that terror retreating to my parents’ room wasn’t just for the security of mommy and daddy. That’s where the guns were.

I woke them up and told them what I’d heard.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” my mother said. Dad got up and locked the bedroom door and said, “Y’all lock yourselves in the bathroom.”

I heard the patio door slide open. If any of the rest of us had any doubts about what had just come into the house, Duchess sure didn’t. The only thing she’d ever feared in this world was her own pup. A deep rumble of a growl vibrated in the floor beneath our bare feet and Duchess’s bladder let go as if on cue. Mine wasn’t far from doing the same.

What followed was a six hour exercise in pure terror, punctuated by snarling attacks on the bedroom door, crashes through the rest of the house as Princess found more things to break, whispered prayers from my mother, and litanies of curses from my father as another of his attempted forays out of the bedroom were thwarted.

We were without a phone. The one on my parents’ nightstand was dead. We’d later find the phone line to have been ripped out at the main box. My mom suggested that we try to make it to the car and above and beyond everything else, it was my father’s response to that idea that really scared me. Of the three of us, he was supposed to be the rational thinker, but what we got instead was:

“Honey, I think that’s what it wants us to do.”

As the world through the windows turned from black to grey, a quiet fell over the house. Mom and I watched through the windows, craning our heads in an attempt to get an eye on the patio door, but try as we might, the best we could manage was a view of most of the patio – more than enough concealment for a dog to slink in or out, even a big one like Princess.

After an hour of silence, my dad quietly opened the bedroom door. I remember thinking what a useless gesture any attempt at stealth was. Dog senses are so much more acute than ours that he might as well have fired a twenty-one gun salute. Dad stopped in the hallway and shooed me back to the bedroom. “Don’t come out until I say, OK?” Carefully, he made his way through the house to the patio door. We heard him shut it before he shouted back to us to stay in the bedroom till he told us to come out.

Through the door, I could hear him moving around and what seemed to be him dropping things into a garbage bag. After about thirty minutes, he gave us the all clear.

What greeted us was a disaster – ripped up cushions and pillows, destroyed furniture, shredded papers and books all over the floor, but most terrible were the smears of gore all over everything. My mother wondered aloud at what she’d drug into the house. Grim-faced, my father did not answer. He simply turned and headed out the back to bury Rocky for a second time.

We cleaned up as best we could while dad drove down to our neighbor’s house to make all the appropriate calls. After all these years. I still wonder what portion of home owner’s insurance covers “attack by undead demon ghost dog”.

Unspoken, we all wondered what the night would bring.

As it turned out, we never got a repeat, but Duchess never left the house again.

Time rolled on.

Occasionally, we’d find a new “present” on the rabbit bush. Just a friendly reminder, another token of Princess’s abiding “love.”

About two years into college, my dad called to tell me that our neighbor had passed. “Heart attack in his sleep, the coroner says,” said my dad, but what we were both thinking was “Not a mark.”

There are plenty of nights where I wonder what the last thing was to pass before that old bachelor’s eyes. I can guarantee you it stared right back. I’ve seen firsthand how it feeds.

Not long after that, my folks put the house up for sale. I sort of acted as go-between on that deal. About a week after the new owners moved in, I received a call from the man of the house. He wanted to know if we’d left any pets behind when we moved. Already fearing the answer, I asked him why he asked.

“Oh, me and the kids keep seeing this white shepherd in the woods. Pretty!”


Original Story: Princess


The Shoe Tree | A Creepypasta

Have you ever seen a shoe tree?

“Are we there yet?”
The words every father expects to hear. Invariably, at every ten-minute interval, my eight-year-old daughter Cynthia, would peel her face from the car window and ask the same question. And dutifully, I would respond, “Almost, sweetie.” We had been driving for almost two hours (which should give you an idea of how much I’d had to put up with) to drop Cynthia off at her mother’s. Lisa and I had been divorced for about three years, and doggedly, she still demanded to see Cynthia for a month every Christmas. Now, Lisa wasn’t exactly Mother of the Year material, but hell—I’m no angel myself. I’m thirty-seven, I smoke, and have a nasty penchant for cursing like a sailor. But dammit, I love Cynthia, and it still kills me every time I drop her off for that dreaded month of December.

Needless to say, I was in no hurry to get to Lisa’s. So this year, I decided to take an old backwoods route. I figured it would be a good chance to show Cynthia the beauty of nature while squeezing out a little bit more time with her before I had to leave her for four and a half weeks. She was so engrossed by the passing scenery that she would only ask the periodic “Daddy, what’s that?!” or “Are we there yet?” before replacing her round little face on the passenger-side window. And I would indulge her every question, explaining “It’s an old grain silo, sweetheart,” or “Almost, dear.”

After a while, I flicked on the radio for some quiet background noise, and began to slip into the quiet, meditative trance induced by long-distance driving. However, my calm was soon disturbed by a shriek from Cynthia. Slamming on the brakes instinctively, I brought the car to a lurching halt, looking over at Cynthia. “What is it? Cynthia, what’s wrong!?” I asked, panicking. My mind raced with all the things that could go wrong—heart attack, pulmonary edema, kidney failure (all of which were outlandish, seeing as Cynthia was perfectly healthy); but Cynthia just kept staring out the window, transfixed by whatever was out there.

As I looked past her small, childlike head, I began to see what had elicited the shrill scream.

It was an enormous white birch tree in the middle of a snowy field. Now, aside from the unusually large size of the tree (birches don’t usually grow much bigger than a foot in diameter, this one had to be at least four or five), something else struck me as odd about the leaves of the tree. It was a good distance into the field (about thirty yards) and I was still looking from behind Cynthia’s head (which was firmly plastered to the window at this point), but I could just barely make out the shape of the leaves themselves.

It didn’t even register at first, but after looking carefully, I realized that the leaves of the tree weren’t leaves at all… they were… shoes. Hundreds of them. Hanging from the branches by the laces, every shape and size imaginable. I slowly opened the door and stepped out to get a closer look. The sheer size of the tree was impressive, and the spread of its branches was unbelievable. By a rough sizing-up, I guessed there to be about six or seven hundred pairs hanging all in all, some from even the smallest branches. I began to walk around the front of the car, unable to take my eyes off the bizarre spectacle before me. Then, without warning, I heard the other door open, and Cynthia shot off toward the tree, giggling with childish laughter.

Now, aside from the fact that this was a field, in the middle of nowhere, it was also the dead of winter. So as Cynthia ran off toward the tree, wearing just a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, my first reaction was to go get her coat (Lord knows she wouldn’t put it on, even if it was fifty below). I turned around to grab her snow jacket from the car, and when I turned back, coat in hand, to yell at Cynthia to wear it… she was gone.
My eyes searched the snow frantically for her, tracing her footsteps directly to the tree’s base. “Cynthia!” I called. I heard a girlish giggle in response. “Cynthia, we don’t have time to play games!” I took a step towards the tree, and as the snow crunched underfoot, I heard her giggle again, unmistakable. “Cynthia, come here right this instant!” I shouted, my voice becoming slightly more hoarse. To my immense relief, she revealed herself, dashing out from behind the shoe tree. But there was something off about her, something I couldn’t quite put my—

She was barefoot. “Fine, Daddy, I’m here! Do we have to go? The tree is so warm and nice!”

I grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her small frame, nearly trembling from fear, “Cynthia, where are your shoes?”

Nervously, she answered, “The nice man told me to take them off, Daddy—look, he gave me a pretty necklace!”

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. Sure enough, there, around my daughter’s neck, was a small heart-shaped pendant. I clenched my jaw, grabbed the pendant, and snapped it off.

“Daddy? What’s wrong?”

“Cynthia, I need you to get back in the car, and stay there. Now.”

“But Daddy, my sho—”

“NOW, Cynthia. Get in the car, and lock the doors. Don’t open them for anyone, until I tell you so, okay?”

“Okay… if you say so…”

Cynthia walked off nervously towards the car, throwing glances back at me over her shoulder. I watched every step she took until she finally got in, and locked the doors. Then I turned to confront this “nice man”. Whatever sick fuck set up this little sideshow attraction, I wasn’t about to allow him to go around luring little kids in with cheap baubles just so he could get his rocks off. I followed Cynthia’s tracks straight toward the tree, until it loomed before me, larger than life. It was then that I noticed something about the shoes: they were all children’s. Not a single pair larger than a kid’s size 7. I shuddered and placed my hand on the tree for support.

To my shock, it was warm to the touch. I peeled back some of the papery bark to get a closer look at what might be causing this phenomenon, and was surprised to see what looked like initials carved in. Now, that wouldn’t have been terribly unusual, were it not for the fact that right next to those initials were more. And next to those, even more. As I peeled back more and more of the thin, waxy bark, I discovered dozens of initials carved in, then hundreds. I took a step back. I began to get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, the twisting, wrenching knot that forms when you know something’s wrong. I glanced back up at the shoes, and the knot tightened. I saw Cynthia’s sneakers dangling there, like tiny little cadavers, dangling languidly by their laced entrails.

Thoroughly creeped the fuck out at this point, I turned and ran the fuck back to the car, my breath forming heavy clouds in the sharp, cold air. I grabbed my key, unlocked the driver’s side door, got in, and locked it behind me. I turned to Cynthia and asked her, “Are you okay sweetie? Did anyone hurt you, or touch you?”

“No, Daddy, I’m fine! Mr. Smiles is funny, he makes me laugh. He’s got a funny face!”

That knot in my stomach twisted and squeezed, sending icy tendrils of fear creeping up toward my heart. “Who’s Mr. Smiles, Cynthia?”

Cynthia remained wordless as her eyes slid to the backseat. My heart froze solid as I slowly turned my gaze to follow hers. It lounged casually back there, only barely human. Bony talons, clasped neatly together, protruded from underneath the rotting flesh of its fingers. Its “funny face” was a mass of decaying skin, stretched tight over its bleached white skull. The corners of its mouth had sloughed away, leaving only a sickening grimace permanently etched beneath its eyeless sockets. The grotesque smile widened, and it reached into a jar at its side, grasping a tiny piece of candy between its decrepit fingers.

“Care for a piece of candy?”

I stared, frozen with terror, as Cynthia’s hand reached out and snatched the candy from its clutches, and began unwrapping it. The creature’s eyeless gaze seemed to shift to meet my own horrified stare, its disgusting grin widening ever so slightly. I tried to scream, but curiously, found that I couldn’t. Funny, I hadn’t even noticed his other hand creeping up my neck. A creeping chill entered my veins as his icy talons clutched my throat. Warm blood spilled down my chest as my last breaths wheezed through the freshly torn hole in my neck. Cynthia looked at me curiously, suckling innocently on that piece of candy. Her voice echoed around me as I spiraled down into darkness.

“Daddy? What’s wrong? Daddy…? Daddy…”

Original Story: The Shoe Tree

A Haunted Doll | A Creepypasta by BlueHero45

It’s absurd that I would die this way, its absurd anyone could die this way. It’s preposterous but I can feel the warmth of the flames grow closer, unable to move all I can do is search my memories and try to discover what I have done to deserve this fate.

My name is Elizabeth Downs. I am a twenty-four year old eccentric. I have an obsession with Victorian Dolls. They have just enough a mix of creepy and cute that I cannot get enough of them. My friends mock me for it, and not everyone is thrilled to see my collection but I never mind it. I was never one to care what others thought.

A new antique shop had recently opened and I was paying it a visit after seeing a doll from the window. It had on a black dress with a white umbrella in her hand. I had to take a look. A middle age man in an old suit approached me as I walked up to the doll. “Do you like her?” he said. He listened intently as I told him my own fascination with such dolls. I don’t know why I felt so compelled to tell this stranger my own hobby with such enthusiasm. He seemed truly absorbed in what I had to say, waiting patiently for me to finish with a smile on his face. “I can show you an even better doll in the store if you like?” With glee I followed the man to a small room in the back of the shop before suddenly the world went black.

I awoke to a bright light. I could not seem to move and felt like I was being carried somewhere. As my sight adjusted I could see the antique shop’s owner’s face close to mine. It seemed huge, as he stepped back I realized it was huge. I was high up, I could not move my head but I could see the doll from earlier out of the corner of my eye. It now sat next to me matching my size. “A beautiful doll indeed,” the man said in a sweet voice with a large grin on his face. The situation was deranged, I tried to yell out but my mouth would not move. I could do nothing but sit on my little shelf and watch as the man walked away.

Time was hard to keep track of. I was stuck in a plastic body with no way to move and left only with my thoughts. I know I would go mad if things kept up. I tried to entertain my mind by watching costumers come and go and the owner sweep and clean in-between. Every now and again he looked over at me and smiled. I was left with my hearing as well, but the sound of a little bell as costumers entered and exited and a few conversations with the owner were nearly all the sounds the store had to offer. Night had fallen twice, and I was left alone in the dark shop unable to even close my eyes. I could only wonder if anyone was looking for me, and if it was at all possible for them to find me in this state.

On the third day an older lady looked at me before walking off with the owner. They were out of my sight for a while before I heard the sound of the cash register. Then the owner walked up to me with a box in his hand. He picked me up and with surprise I could feel it. Why could I feel, hear or see anything in this plastic body? I was soon sunk into the darkness of the box. All light faded away as the top was closed. Claustrophobia soon set in. My mind panicked but there was literally nothing I could do. It’s hard to say how much time I spent in that box. Much of it has become blur of panic and sensory deprivation. My mind had floated away in that time.

Finally a light shone into my cage. It was blinding at first then someone pulled me into it. I saw the frowning face of a young girl. At least twelve or thirteen years old. She forced a smile on her face and turned to the old lady from the store sitting on a couch behind her. The words “Thank you, Grandma” forced their way out of her mouth. Confusion made way for the realization I was some kind of gift. I wanted to scream for help, but it was useless. Soon I was shoved back into the box, thankfully the top left open so I was no longer surrounded by darkness.

Sometime later I was removed from the box once and unceremoniously thrown on top of a rocking chair. I landed hard against the wooden chair. Filling my body with blunt pain. The room clearly belonged to the young girl. It was decorated with pink colors, stuffed animals, and all things girly. However despite the poor décor I saw an opportunity to try to communicate. Holding onto some slim hope that she notice me, or the me that was trapped in this body. Perhaps she did notice something, as time passed she stared at me. However my hopes died as she simply said “Creepy” and threw a pillow on top of me as she turned off the lights for the night.

Claustrophobia once again set in. Mixed with the frustration of all that has happened to me. Despite no longer having lungs I felt as if I was suffocating. I tried to will every bit of myself to move as my mind screamed. Then the chair rocked, just a little. Enough to knock the pillow off-balance and let it fall to the floor. I had somehow moved. Not by much but it was a small victory against my cursed fate. I could see the girl was already in bed sleeping. A small hope started to return that perhaps I would find a way out of this after all. I felt tired for the first time, and my mind drifted off to what I can only compare to sleep for the first time. I awoke some time later to see the girl standing over me. She had a scared look on her face. “Serves her right” I thought to myself. A woman’s voice yelled “Alice” and the girl turned away and left the room.

As time passed I understood that their were rules to my condition. I could move only with great willpower and only when no one was watching. It started with only an inch or so but grew the more I practiced. With this new hope I redoubled my efforts to try to seek help. It was one night that I managed to finally remove myself from the rocking chair. I had to drop with a thump to the floor. The impact hurt but I deemed it worth the pain. I sat facing the door to the room. Alice would notice me, she could help me if she know I was alive.

My plan worked, but held unforeseen consequences. Alice walked into the room and upon seeing me shrieked. A swift moment later her foot flow towards me kicking me across the room hard into a wall. The impact severed my plastic arm from my body. I was filled with mind numbing pain. I wanted to cry, scream, crumble in agony but once again I was unable to move. Alice moved towards me, I wanted to plead for her aid, for her mercy. She looked angry and I was scared. She picked me up, and took my severed arm in her other hand. “Enough of this,” she said as she walked out of the room with me.

We walked through parts of the house I was seeing for the first time. I saw no signs of her parents or the old lady I first met. We walked into the home’s backyard and I was set on a glass outdoor table. Alice moved towards a large metal bowl with wood sitting inside it. It was a fire pit. My heart sank. She picked up some matches from a nearby chair and lit them. With care she started a fire in the pit and watched it grow. “Always watching me,” she said in an angry tone. I tried to will myself away, I tried to scream “I don’t want to die!” but it was useless. Soon, as the fire grew, she approached me slowly like an executioner to the gallows. I was picked up and marched towards the fire.

I am afraid… really afraid. Please… old lady, man from the shop… anyone. I can feel the flames growing closer, their warmth growing with each inch forward… Please Alice…

Original Story: A Haunted Doll Story

Music by Myuu

Shoes | A Creepypasta


It was a cold, regular winter night in my North Carolina cabin. I was on a 2-week trip to the mountains in North Carolina to just relax and get away from the city. I picked a nice, cozy cabin nestled high into the mountains. There were only a few other cabins besides mine, and most looked abandoned. It was my first night that I arrived at the cabin, it was a long drive through the inclines and many trees.

It was on a secluded little flat overlooking the side of the mountain, surrounded by trees on all sides, except facing north, which had a beautiful overlook onto the road and the countryside. I was unpacking my things, the cabin looked really nice, I was surprised at the price I got it for, relatively cheap.

It was almost like pocket change compared to what I made. As I wandered inside the house, it was well stocked with furnishings of all sorts. It had a chimney on the right side of the house, a kitchen near the front door, a porch, a bathroom, and a bedroom. The bedroom looked very comfortable, along with the furniture. The place sported a nice TV; it was good to have modern amenities out in the countryside.

That night, as I was preparing to go to sleep, putting on my freshly folded nightwear from my suitcase, I heard a noise. It wasn’t a typical noise you’d expect to hear on a normal night in the wilderness, it sounded like footsteps, leaves being crunched outside. It sounded like something was walking near my little cabin. I shut my TV off to hear the noise a little better. It stopped. I was a brave guy, so I assumed it was simply some wildlife outside and continued watching the 10:00 news.

Then it came again, but this time the footsteps were much closer, I could clearly hear them now, with out the need to turn the TV off. This time, I was a little scared. But, as I said, I was a brave guy. I grabbed my shoes, and my flashlight, and wandered outside. My car was still parked where it should be, and it was a very beautiful night. I heard an owl hooting in the distance. I proceeded around the perimeter of my house, aiming my flashlight at anything and everything.

The only thing I saw were trees, and brown leaves on the ground. I went around the house until I got to the window next to the room I was sleeping in. I aimed my flash light, and I saw two shoes perched up right next to my window on top of the forest ground, and what looked like visible foot steps leading up to my window. The strangest part was the footsteps were marked by fresh blood; each visible footstep was visibly stained red. I tried to find a valid explanation in my head on how this could have happened, imagining maybe someone had gotten into a serious accident and was bleeding heavily. Were seeking help? But I still could not explain the shoes.

Who would just randomly drop off their shoes near someones house? I aimed my flashlight at the shoes and examined them. They looked like really old and worn out dress shoes — maybe 10 to 20 years old with visible holes and tears in the leather. It was clear these shoes were no longer usable as shoes and served no mere purpose other than as trash. I picked up the shoes, and felt inside. I felt what almost felt like a stone. I pulled it out. It was half of a human foot! The bones at least.. but the worst part was, the bones were splattered with blood! Unable to explain anything and fearing for my life, I hurried back home, my heart racing. I locked up well that night and shut \every window. I kept my gun at my side in the drawer. An old revolver loaded with 6 bullets, shall I ever need to use it.

I managed to get to sleep that night, but I had a horrible nightmare that spooked me horribly. I dreamt I was sleeping in my bed, as normal, but that a man was looking through my bedroom window. But this was no ordinary man, his eyes were very menacing and he had a horrible evil grin, and he did nothing, except occasionally scan the room and glance at me, as if he hoped to get inside and grab something of mine. I could do nothing except stare at him helplessly. I woke up tired the next morning, unable to get a decent amount of sleep.

As I got out out of bed, I noticed something peculiar. The keys to my cabin were missing. I kept them right by the front door, on the key ring. Maybe someone had gotten in and stolen them? Some kids trying to play a cruel prank? I would have called the police, but I had an unregistered gun. If they searched the place I would surely get arrested. So I kept quiet. I proceeded about my normal day, enjoyed breakfast and lunch, sat by the fireplace, and bathed in the jacuzzi inside the cabin.

I walked outside to check on my car, making sure whoever was out there hadn’t messed with it. What I found scared the life out of me. Bloody footsteps led all the way from the forest, to my front door, and to every window around my cabin. I was scared, too scared, too check the window by my bedroom, for surely there would be bloody footsteps there too, and the man watching me wasn’t a dream. But I mustered the courage and went over there. The shoes still lay in the place I had found them. I went over to my window, it was jammed, and covered in finger prints. Someone had tried to get in to My house.

This vacation was turning into a nightmare for me. I decided not to sleep that night, I wanted to see what was really going on. I stayed up that night, revolver in hand, ready for anything. Nothing happened for most of the night, but at 12:30 am, I heard a sound that nearly made me jump out of my bed. The footsteps sound had returned, in the same manner as it happened the first time.

I hid behind my bed, but I was too scared too look at the window. I just waited until the footsteps got close enough, clenching the revolver in my hands. Eventually the footsteps stopped right in front of my window. My heart froze, as I sat motionless against my bed, not wanting to look towards the window. Eventually the footsteps kept going, this time around the perimeter of my cabin. They stopped about at my front door. I heard a knock at the front door. My heart began to race uncontrollably, I dared not move from my spot, and kept my eyes focused in the direction of the noise, my sweaty palms clenching the revolver.

There was a piercing silence, and what seemed like the longest seconds of my life. I heard the most unbelievable thing. My front door was UNLOCKED with a key. I was shocked. I sat, my heart was racing. Footsteps hobbled inside the house. They slowly hobbled to my bedroom door, *step* *step* *step* I was near ready to faint, but I kept my composure. The steps came closer still *step* *step* *step* until they were right outside my door. Complete silence befell the whole house, I was sweating and trembling uncontrollably.

I aimed my revolver at the door, ready to shoot. The door opened slowly, and creaked loudly. The man I had seen before peeked his head in, only half exposing his face. He was smiling an evil grin, simply staring at me. He stepped in, he wore a suit, dress shirt,and pants. He was barefoot. His feet were simply bones, and bloodied, one foot was severed in half.

I was paralyzed, I couldn’t even pull the trigger of my gun. He just stared at me, smiling that evil grin, he seemed to be glancing at something behind me. I pulled the trigger *click* I’d forgotten to load my gun! I frantically trembled, and dropped the gun, paralyzed with fear. Slowly, the man looked at me ominously and muttered “You have some nice shoes.”

Original Story: Shoes

Friday of Fright Welcomes Blackeyed Blonde

Welcome to Spooky Boo’s Friday of Fright where I welcome special guests of horror to showcase their favorite stories. Tonight I have a special treat! Listen to “The Seconds Between” by Blackeyed Blonde. This one-of-a-kind story will terrify you as it slowly unfolds. This is an original story by Blackeyed Blonde. I know you will enjoy it!
Story by: Blackeyed Blonde
Narrated by: Blackeyed Blonde
Music by: Myuu
Please visit Blackeyed Blonde on YouTube for more creepy stories!

Black-Eyed Kids in Kansas | An Anonymous Creepypasta

It was warm for a December afternoon in Hutchinson, Kansas when I came home from work in 2008. My ride dropped me off across from my duplex and as I stood in the street, the ride drove away slowly. Cautiously. I knew something wasn’t right. I then noticed two boys standing in my driveway. One had longer, darker hair and the other had his hoodie up so I couldn’t see him very well.

The teens, about 15 years old, seemed to be watching me. It was almost like I could feel they were waiting for me. The hair on my arms stood up and my skin was all tingly–like the feeling you get when you have goosebumps. I took a deep breath to give me strength and then walked nervously across the road toward my porch. The boys had lurked around the neighborhood for months, but they had never been so bold as to stand this close to my home.


I had seen them before, lingering in the yard, but they always left before I got out of my ride’s car. I had seen them late at night as well standing across the street when I would go outside to have an occasional late-night cigarette.

But, although pangs of unease told me to run, their boldness angered me. I stopped and asked them why they were on my property. They told me they needed to use a phone and that the neighbors would not let them in. That was when I noticed their eyes – they were coal black. Just black. No white and not even a hint of iris or pupil.

I felt the fear from deep inside my gut and pinging throughout my body, but as evenly as I could muster, I told them I didn’t have a telephone. I walked up the porch steps and began to unlock my door when the boy in the hood spoke.

“May we come in for a glass of water,” the boy in the hood said. I turned to look at them again, thinking maybe my mind was playing tricks. But no, when I turned and looked into their eyes they were pitch black as the first time.

These children with dead, black eyes had spoke softly to me, emotion and vocal inflection absent from their words. As I looked at these boys, whose long hair and hooded sweatshirts made them look like normal teens but the eyes made me feel sick. I knew I had to get away. I felt panicked and fearful but also very vulnerable and cold. It was like I wanted to let them in but I knew there was evil presence. I had felt uneasy before seeing their eyes but now it all came out.

Then one boy said something that turned my fear into complete terror.

The hooded one then told me they couldn’t come in unless I told them it was OK and that they hoped I would because they were thirsty.  I opened my door and darted inside. At this point I shut the door and locked it.

I dropped onto the couch, my breaths coming in short, heavy gasps, when something tapped on the window behind my head.

One of the boys stood there staring through the glass. I remember his words very clearly; ‘just let us in, miss. We aren’t dangerous, we don’t have anything to hurt you with.’ I was beyond frightened at this point.

I jumped off the couch and ran through the duplex, checking doors and windows to make sure they were locked.

I did wonder if they really couldn’t come in unless invited but I didn’t want to find out. I sat in the living room silently waiting for a sign that they had gone.

When my boyfriend came home a short time later, the black-eyed teens were still at the house.

He asked if I knew who the two boys outside were and I said no. He told me they had been standing in the driveway when he pulled up but walked away when he stepped out of the car.

He didn’t notice the boys’ eyes, but the two gave him a strange feeling.

I later asked my neighbors if these black-eyed children had asked to use their telephone like they had claimed. The neighbors noticed the teens standing in my driveway, but never spoke with them.

Although it’s been more than a year since I turned the black-eyed children from my door, I know they’re still around.

I still see them every now and then standing across the street, watching. But they have not approached me again.

Are You Still There? An Anonymous Creepypasta

The cigarette tasted delicious as I inhaled the smoke. Oh, I needed this. Holidays were always stressful. I wondered why Mom invited me to her house for Thanksgiving this year. As much as I didn’t want to go back, I knew I had to in order to get some money out of her this time. She eventually figured out that it was the only reason I wanted anything to do with her anymore and didn’t seem to care. Our relationship was past the point of being repaired, but she seemed to be fine with it. Oh, well. I got money out of it, so why the hell did it matter?

I was sitting outside on her porch when I saw our next door neighbor’s son Richie, whom I used to have a crush on growing up, checking his mailbox. He looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. My friend Sarah told me that he was with Georgina now, that whore. How many men is she going to go through before she realizes that she’s a slut? I laughed to myself as I snuffed my cigarette butt out on the cement. I left this town for a reason, but something always pulled me back. Something other than the stupid gossip. And Mom.

I stood up and started to walk back into Mom’s house when I heard Richie call my name.

“Yeah?” I asked, turning around. I jumped as he was only standing a few feet away from me and I should’ve seen him walk up to me in my peripheral vision. I stared into his glacier blue eyes, expecting to see the same ambitious, passionate, and charismatic Richie that I knew before. But they were empty. I was paralyzed in fear to see his chalky face up close. He looked fine at a distance. “What’s wrong…?”

“What are you doing here?” he whispered.

“I…I’m visiting my Mom,” I said.

He shook his head and shot a fearful glance towards the house.

“You have to leave. Things aren’t the same here anymore. The…the town, it’s…” he said.

“Richie, what the fuck is wrong? You’re scaring me,” I asked.

He put his hands on my shoulders and leaned into me. His breath smelled of death as he spoke.

“Things have changed. For the worse. When you look at things here without really looking into them, they appear normal. But…they’re not. They’re…” he said, trailing off. I heard Mom whistling in the background.

“Daniella, sweetheart. Who are you talking to?” she asked. He must’ve lost his mind.

“Richie,” I replied.

“Leave and don’t come back. It’s too late for me,” he whispered.

“Dinner’s ready,” Mom said. I gently pushed him away from me.

“Want to join us?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Daniella, don’t go back in there. No one is who they say they are.”

“Not even you?” I asked.

“No. Not even me. You wonder why you keep coming back, don’t you? It’s this place. They lure you in,” he said.

“Daniella, come on before the food gets cold,” Mom scolded.

“I’m hungry. It was nice seeing you again, Richie,” I mumbled, turning and walking back into the house.

I saw Mom in the kitchen taking lasagna out of the oven and setting it on the counter, which was my favorite but an unusual Thanksgiving dish. “Lasagna, huh?”

“Yeah. Why not?” she asked, smiling. I sat down at the kitchen table and watched her cut me a piece of it, putting it on a plate and setting it down in front of me.

“So, Richie’s really lost his mind, huh?” I asked, trying to laugh about how fucked up he was now but failing miserably.

“Oh, honey. Richie’s been dead for years,” Mom said, laughing.


“If you had visited often enough, then you would know that Richie died years ago. Freak accident,” she said as she cut herself a piece of lasagna.

“But…I just-”

“You just saw him? Don’t give me that shit, Daniella. You always used to say that you could see dead people when you were a kid, but you’re a big girl now. Eat your food,” she said.

I grabbed my fork, trembling, and looked down at the lasagna. It seemed to be moving. I leaned in closer to it, slowly peeling off the first layer and gasped when a huge spider scurried out of it, off of the table, and across the room. I kept peeling off layer after layer and found more bugs.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“What did you put in this, Mom?” I asked. I leaned in, removing the last layer of lasagna and gasping at what I saw. A finger.

“What do you mean? It’s the same lasagna I made when you still lived here,” she said, sitting across from me and taking a big bite of her piece. I squirmed as I heard her chomp down on of what sounded like a huge insect inside of her mouth.

“Mom…what’s wrong with you?” I asked.

“What’s wrong with? Me? What’s wrong with you?! Lasagna is your favorite food,” she said.

“I have to go,” I said, standing up. She raised her eyebrows.

“Oh? Where?”

“Home,” I said.

She smiled.

“This IS your home,” she said and grinned at me, flashing pieces of the bug she ate between her teeth.

“No, it isn’t.”

“You were never satisfied with what you had,” she mumbled, standing up and walking towards the kitchen drawers.

“Mom, I’m sorry. Just please stop acting like this.”

“Like what?” she asked, getting a knife out of a drawer.

“What happened to you? To this place?” I asked.

“Things change, honey. People leave, die, disappear. This town is the only town that’s changed for the better. But you just had to go and leave, didn’t you? Had to fuck everything up. Had to fuck up The Plan. If you would’ve stayed, like I asked you to, you would’ve changed with us. You would’ve gotten everything you ever wanted. But you never listened. You still don’t.”

“Please stop,” I mumbled, covering my face. Warm tears filled my eyes and my heart skipped a beat as I heard Mom walking towards me.

She removed my hands from my face and leaned in closer to me. As she got closer and closer, her face began to contort and become disfigured.

“I never wanted you to leave. But now, you never have to. You’re one of us now,” she said, jamming the knife into my stomach and twisting the cold, steel blade. I felt the blood begin to soak my shirt and pants as she hoisted the knife upward. As I slowly began to fade out of consciousness, I saw her for what she really was. Well, for what IT really was.

Mom was right. I never listen. Not even to dead people.

Original story: Are You Still There?

Music by Myuu

User Submitted Stories of Demonic Possession

Mark’s Story

My name is Mark. I tried committing suicide 3 years ago, I died, and was brought back. I had hellish nightmare, that I will tell in another story later. Once I was released from the hospital after being in ICU, I had to serve 30 days in a mental home. Once I got out, I had a evil spirit. Probably a demon that was attached to me, and the house. I want scared cause I pray, and believe in God. I would hear growling, and see a dark shadow every now n then. Ignoring it, made it worse. It started to bother my mom by shaking her bed or anything she sat on. My mother was always scared. Eventually she could never get sleep. After she couldn’t sleep for a week we tried using holy water n cleanse our house n property line. It made it worse. Scratches started appearing on my back. Then the cross was knocked off the wall with some kind of gooey substance on it. My dog was getting attacked all the time, and would shake constantly. Then I started getting voices in my head with constant sadness. We finally had our local priest come over, and help us. He read versus of the bible, and blessed the house with holy water. He had us hang rosaries all over the house. This still didn’t stop it. But helped a little better. What finally helped was me going to confession, and praying to the holy spirit to bless n protect me with the white light. Its been gone ever since, and I try to keep on going to my church at least once a month. I’d like to go more if I could. The evil spirit is gone. I still have the broken Cross to remind me that this was real. My family never believed us when this was happening. We were on our own to figure it out. That’s one of my stories. I have more from the past to tell later. Thank you for welcoming me to the group. Take my story with you’re own opinion.

Heat Death by Avenging Angel

Summer was your favorite season; I said it was mine, too.

Dusk didn’t bring the brisk coolness of night, even as the breeze had kicked up dust fruitlessly towards the Sun, whose shades were dimming and growing heavy with the weight of the dwindling day.

Our smiles stood high, the corners curving upwards like sharp billhooks ready to strike. I took you by the hand, staring into your eyes. I saw my reflection in your glasses, and it made me want to breathe deep. With a big breath of that sickly, jarring evening air, I was certain nothing had disgusted me more than that very moment. But you didn’t know that. You were convinced we had some fucked up semblance of relationship or friendship or something. Anything just to make you think that you had someone in your life, and anything to save you from the wretched loneliness that the rest of society subjected you to. The way that we’d play with their bodies together every time it was over had you convinced that I loved you. You thought you had some kind of immunity, but really, I grew so sick of you over time that I’d purge onto your sleeping body. Brown, slimy clumps of that night’s romantic steak dinner would drip down your face and you’d just laugh. I would stare blankly, like I mostly do. Forgive me for my smiles, and for everything I was about to put you through.

There’s something cute about the way that you confided in me with all of your trust and sincerity. You were drawn to me like a fly to fresh dog shit in the stagnant August heat. We’d often go to the beach on the day you wanted to kill. God, you were so comfortable. Staring at me behind your flushed, amber eyes and scratched-up Ray-bans, your delusions were so dark and misguided. I used to be lonely, too. But as you’d gnash tuna sandwiches with your mouth agape and tell me your ideas for cutting someone apart, my blood ran icy. I would only stare back blankly and think of how alone in this world we really were. It was just the two of us, but you managed to make me feel crowded anyways. I remember how beautiful your scarred and sunburned body was, in spite of its imperfections. I was not infatuated; your flaws were so horribly apparent there was no time for the curse of infatuation. That’s not to say that I didn’t love you back at some point, but your cradle of love was so decrepit and threadbare that it was only a matter of time before it fell through.

That night was a night that I had long prepared for. The last belligerent flecks of day faded away, and I found you nestled into that apathetic corpse. You had slit his throat; you loved to bathe in the fleeting heat that poured from their bodies. You loved to watch their desperate attempts of grasping for life as they would put their hands to their throat, the blood seeping through the cracks in their fingers like water filling a sinking ship. You’d lick your lips and softly run your fingers through bloodied clumps of hair and lean quietly into their ears, giving them soporific whispers of reassurance. Soon, their breathing slowed and came to redundant gurgles and death rattles. Silence always followed, as though your voice had soothed them. But I knew otherwise; your voice was jarring and shrill, even in the most delicate of whispers. I always told you it was lovely.

I grasped the cadaver’s hand. He was a Libra, like me, or so his license said. Maybe we would have been friends. I made a fire with the money in his wallet. This wasn’t a robbery, except of my own emotions. I had lost all feeling. In every sense besides my beating heart, I was as lifeless as he. You ripped open his chest cavity and covered yourself in entrails. Every organ was a plaything, just as I had been. Your laughter was broken, staccato, and deafening. In that moment, I was not livid. I did not seethe, grit my teeth, or do anything else to signify to you that you were the most annoying and disruptive creature to ever stand on two legs. It was impossible; I no longer possessed the ability to hate.

My “playing” of your toys had always been subtle touches and affection. It was adorable to you, the fact that you didn’t like to share. I seldom had the urge to kill, let alone dismember a corpse. You were sawing through his legs as I told you to stop. You looked at me, and I looked back with the biggest smile I had ever made in my entire life. Perhaps it was a bit disconcerting, as I wasn’t one to smile. My expressions were generally emotionless. You smiled, but struggled to keep eye contact. Oh, how easy it was to expose that you were pathetically weak to me. How easily I took the bone saw right from your hands and pressed it to your throat, grabbing your greasy, filthy, terrible excuse for hair and pinning you to the ground, your eyes wide and mine even wider. You screamed the most beautiful sound you have ever uttered. It was so good that you picked this place specifically for how remote it was. You told me a scream would never be heard; a body would never be found. You’re so fucking stupid. That’s what I found to be adorable. You really trusted me and locked yourself in walls of false security that were slowly closing in on you. Now those walls were crushing your body, with bones dismantling and tendons tearing away.

Your screaming turned to pleading as the saw laid against your throat. You knew that I was stronger, that you would not be able to overpower me with your greatest effort. You were helpless, but I was not happy. Happiness is an emotion that is felt through entertainment or the success of a goal, but this was neither. It was cold and emotionless, like I had been to you. That was never a red flag, I guess. You were pretty fucked in the head, too. But you had emotions, having drained mine away. I would never get them back. I could only feel subtle tinges of bitter contempt as I slowly sawed through your throat, watching as blood pooled onto your white skin and spread like fire to paper. The saw burned through your neck, and I eventually heard the same gurgling and death rattles. I gave no whisper, feeling that you probably had thought something to yourself about it almost being over or whatever. I stood up once you no longer made noise. I didn’t want to touch you. Even in this moment you made me feel disinterested and lethargic.

Summer is a disgusting season, but you don’t deserve something you liked so much. I cut you up that night and put your remains in our freezer, which I planned on disposing of. One last time, I subjected you to my frigid gaze before closing the door shut.

Original Story