The Thing in the Window

Original Story

Music by Myuu

I’m pretty freaked out.

That thing has been there for almost a week. The figure in the window. It looks featureless, only skin on a human

frame, and it’s pressing itself against the glass somehow. I don’t know how it got there, and I don’t know how to get rid of it.

At first I thought it was a prank, a doll or mannequin that some jerks put there to scare me. But I realized as I walked out of my house to pull it away… it wasn’t there. I shrugged it off, thinking that someone had hidden it while I was walking through my door. But I went back in and looked out that same window, and it was looking in, staring at me. I walked around my house, yelling for whoever it was to come out, but no one was there. The thing is hairless and naked, and it didn’t look like it actually had eyes, or even a face at all. But its head is turned towards me when I enter the room. When I sit on my computer, I can feel its faceless hatred boring into my neck. But when I turn around, it’s innocently turned in a different direction.

Finally on Thursday, I tried to open the window, but it’s stuck. I think the thing’s hands are keeping it down. But I got a good look at its face. Its eyes and mouth are behind the skin, pushing outward.

It stared at me, smiling.

I pulled back a fist and smashed it onto the glass, determined once and for all to get rid of the glaring monster. I know I’m strong enough. That glass should’ve cracked.

But it didn’t. It shuddered under my hand, but it didn’t break. And that smile just got wider and wider and wider, until I thought its head would break in half. It raised its own hand and bashed the window with its palm. It was mocking me. But I saw the faintest crack begin to appear where it had hit, and I backed away.

No way did I want that smile in the same room as me.

So I got a roll of duct tape, and I started covering the window. I couldn’t look directly at it; I nearly shit my pants just knowing it was watching me. But I couldn’t help it. I took a quick glance at that skin-covered face. A small peek.

It was angry.

That menacing grin was now a gaping frown full of teeth. The skin had ripped away from its mouth and I could see down its cavernous throat. A menacing rumble started to fill the house, and that hairline crack began to spread like splintering ice. I pulled down the duct tape. The rumble stopped, the split skin healed over, and it began to smile again.

Now it’s night, and the noise hasn’t started again. There are no sounds, no rumble, no crackling glass. Everything’s quiet now.

But I can feel its claws gripping the back of my chair. I can hear its skin stretching as it smiles.

It’s watching me type.

31 Days of Halloween | Bunnyman Bridge | A Creepypasta

Back in 1903, deep in Clifton, there used to be an asylum buried deep within the wilderness of Clifton. Pretty soon after the civil war people started inhabiting the area, population-wise around three hundred or so. It was a very small town. Nonetheless people didn’t like the idea of having an asylum miles down the road, so they all got together and signed a petition for the asylum to relocate elsewhere. The petition passed and a new asylum was built, which is now known as “Lorton Prison”, a temporary facility for convicts to stay in until they are appropriately sentenced.

In the autumn of 1904, the convicts were gathered and piled into the bus, used to transport them to Lorton. Somewhere during the drive not too far from where they left, the driver had swerved to avoid something and the bus had started to tip, and soon was rolling in a terrible collision course.

Most of the convicts were injured, but managed to escape the bus and had fled into the night towards the woods. The next morning, a local police investigation had begun, and they begun rounding up the escaped convicts. Hours turned into days, days into weeks, weeks into months. Everyone was recovered after four months- except for two people, named Marcus A. Wallster and Douglas J. Grifon. During the search for both men, the police found dead rabbits, all of them half-eaten and dismembered, every now and then along their search.

Finally, they were to find Marcus dead by the Fairfax station Bridge (now known as Bunny Man’s Bridge). In his hand, he held a man-made hammer/knife like tool, made with a sharp rock and a sturdy branch as a handle. They thought nothing of it, and didn’t care how he died, only that he was apprehended and they no longer had to worry about him. They had a name for Marcus, but later on they would realize they had named the wrong person the Bunny Man.

Still searching for Douglas, they kept on finding dead half-eaten rabbits every so often while the search went on. Eventually, they were to name Douglas the “Bunny Man” from then on.

Months passed by and the police gave up their search. Everybody assumed the Bunny Man was dead by now, if not gone, so they went on with their small town lives. Come October, people started seeing dead bunnies reappearing out of the blue, and starting to fear the unseen.

Halloween Night came around, and as usual, a bunch of kids had gone over to the Bridge that night to drink and do whatever kids their age in the early twentieth century did. Midnight came around within minutes, and most of the kids had left. Only three of them remained at the bridge.

Exactly at midnight, a bright light came from the bridge, right where the kids were. A few seconds later, they were all dead. Throats slashed with that same type of tool that was found next to the other escapee, Marcus. Not only were their throats slashed, but they were cut up and down their chests, gutted like fish. The Bunny Man then hung both of the boys from one end of a bridge with rope around their necks, hanging from the overpass with their legs dangling in view of any passing cars.

The girl was hung the same way, on the other side of the bridge. This happened on Halloween in 1905. After that, they didn’t see or hear anything from him for another year.

Halloween 1906 was approaching, and parents as well as the teens in Clifton still remember the incident that had occurred one year ago at the bridge- his bridge, the Bunny Man’s Bridge.

That night, seven teens were left remaining right before midnight at the bridge. Thinking little of it, six remained inside the bridge while one, Adrian Hatala had remained a good distance from the bridge hoping to have enough time to escape if the same thing happened again. She was the only one to witness this, a dim light walking the railroad track just before midnight, stopping right above the bridge at midnight, then disappearing at the same time that a bright flash was inside the bridge. She heard the deafening sounds of terrified screaming coming from inside the bridge that lasted only seconds. Moments later, they were all hung from the edge of the bridge, in the same way as the corpses a year earlier.

Horrified, she ran home, and refused to tell all of what she saw, just spattered words mixed with incoherent mumblings that the people of her town had to put together to come up with her story. No one understood it or believed her. They charged her with the teen’s murders, and locked her up in the Asylum of Lorton. In 1913, the same thing happened- with nine teenagers this time, on a Halloween night once again.

Adrian was still locked up. They dropped her sentence, but it was too late. The insanity had finally conquered her. Even if she was released, she was too far gone to have a life, so she spent her remaining years in the asylum until she finally died in 1953 of reported shock.

No one knows what exactly she died of shock from, but supposedly she had died in her sleep, dreaming of that one dreaded night. Perhaps the Bunny Man had finally gotten to her.

More murders were to take place however, although after the murders in 1913, most people stayed clear of the bridge on Halloween.

1943 rolls around and six teenagers go strolling out on Halloween night. A couple hours later, all of them dead, same way as all the others. Investigations took place, but as usual nothing was discovered.

1976, the same situation occurs, this time with only three people.

The only other incident that occurred since then was in 1987, twelve years ago. Janet Charletier was enjoying the night with her four friends. Halloween night had finally come, and they had gone driving out to enjoy the night after invading the children’s candy bags. They had settled around eleven PM at the bridge, waiting for midnight to come. They didn’t believe in the myth so they decided to see it for themselves, and were to be the only ones who actually withstood the Bunny Man. They had waited around an hour or so, so it was nearly midnight, when Janet started getting a little scared. They all had been pulling pranks on each other, (jumping out the bushes and screaming), so she was already a little worked up. Midnight hits, and by this stage she is in a total panic.

She’s almost out of the bridge when the lights get really bright inside. When that happens, her body is halfway outside of the bridge. She sees her skin start tearing at her chest but nothing is piercing her skin. She manages finally to leave the bridge. Completely horrified, she hits a hanging body and knocks herself out.

When she awakens, she discovers that she has been bleeding. She was lucky that the cut had just started, and wasn’t very bad at all. She left and never returned to the bridge again.

She has been seen sitting on a swinging bench on her balcony every morning just staring in the direction towards the bridge a couple of miles down. From then on, the story remains untouched and unmoved.

Original Story

Music by Myuu

31 Days of Halloween: Day 4 The Wanderer on the Tracks | A Creepypasta by Gillard McMorith

On Halloween of 1988, six teenage boys ventured into a tunnel on a local railroad. Only one escaped with his life and a photo. What resulted from that innocent venture was a two-year period of unexplained murders which killed off a good ten percent of my small town’s population. To this day, no one knows the true fate of the five boys and the reason behind the murders that lasted until the fall of 1990, except for me. I’m the lone survivor of the six who encountered The Wanderer on the Tracks on that dark Halloween of 1988. It was supposed to be a simple dare, nothing to it.

Everyone had heard of how, every Halloween, people head into the tunnel and never come out. We all thought it was bullshit. Then again, we were only fourteen, and not very well learned in the way of the paranormal. All we expected was just some crazy dude in a bed sheet. However, what we found was much worse. And what we did made the outcome ten times worse than it could’ve been. I guess that “curiosity killed the cat” really fits when remembering this story. It was me (Steve), John, Andy, George, Bill, and Fred. Explaining our choice of costume is irrelevant. However, let us note that we all brought flashlights and Andy had brought a bucket to collect candy in. Foolish Andy. I remember your death so vividly it haunts my dreams to this very day – and she does, too.

But not for long.

We all had dinner at John’s house, as it was closest to the tunnel. After that, we played some Super Mario Bros. on his NES to pass time until it was dark. When it was, we all departed to complete the dare we so foolishly accepted. I carried a Polaroid to show everyone what was really in the tunnel. We left when it was considerably dark outside. Most of the dads were parading their seven year olds up and down the street getting candy before it got really dark. There had recently been some kidnappings in the area, but we didn’t expect to meet the suspect, so we thought we would be safe.

With each step towards the tunnel it seemed as if it got darker, and when we arrived there, it was pitch black, and it was pretty much only us and the older trick-or-treaters outside. We all stopped at the entrance of the tunnel for a moment, realizing that we may not make it out alive. After waiting one more moment, we hesitantly stepped inside, turning on all of our flashlights. No one really wanted to do this. We felt this more and more as we went deeper into the tunnel. It was weird though; usually a tunnel ended around 500 feet, but it seemed like this one went on for miles.

We went on for what I want to say was another three-thousand feet. That’s when we saw it. At the time, we had no idea what it was. If I had a choice, I would wish that I never found out what it was and what it did.

“The fuck is that?” Bill asked, half-whispering to the rest of us. What we saw looked like a girl that had covered herself in dark paint or make up and had on a plain old nightgown. She was holding what looked like a rod, or staff. Her back was facing us.

“Beats me,” Andy shrugged. “Hey!” he yelled at the thing before throwing the bucket at it. It clanged off of the creature and rolled to the right of the track. Suddenly, it made the most gruesome noise in the world as its head rotated 180 degrees to stare back at us. I hastily took out my Polaroid and shot a picture of it. I put away the camera and shook the developing picture before putting it inside my pocket.

Everyone was frozen in place looking at the creature, seemingly paralyzed. Soon, the creature lifted the rod and threw it at Andy. It was horrifying and amazing, seeing it throw what we now KNEW was a spear with such dexterity, as well as doing it backwards. The spear struck Andy in the chest, dead center in the sternum. His ribcage collapsed and blood sprayed from the entry and the exit. His spine snapped, and he crumpled to the ground. The blood splattered spear was stuck in the ground a good forty feet behind us. It was only a moment before we actually thought to run. We didn’t even try to save Andy. I turned my head and saw the creature ripping open his chest, tearing muscle and organs apart as our dying counterpart screamed in his death throes. It seemed like the creature wanted to separate flesh from bone, as that is exactly what it had done. Andy’s flesh and innards were scattered around his skeleton in a pool of his blood. It was coming for the rest of us now.

Bill was the next one it caught, eviscerating him in the same manner as it did to Andy. Then she got George, and then Fred. It was me and John left. The creature was so close we could feel its putrid breath on our necks. We both heard its demonic growls and screeches as we just barely escaped its furious grabs for our costumes. We kept on running even though the lactic acid had built up so much in our arms and legs, and our breath was ragged, and we were so damn tired.

Soon, we saw the end of the tunnel. Somehow, it was morning, which was so illogical, but John and I were both happy to see the light of day. Suddenly, I heard a trip and stumble. John had fucking tripped. We were outside of the tunnel, and he tripped. I didn’t even need to turn my head to know he would be gored and gutted. I ran a safe distance away behind some trees near my house. His screams echoed through the neighborhood and awoke several families, wandering outside to see what was happening. Everyone who went outside all saw the creature as it tore apart John. When it was done, it swept its eyes across the shocked citizens of my small town and let out a deafening roar that no man or animal could create. It then dashed back inside the tunnel, and everyone ran inside their homes, including me.

For two years after that, the people who saw the creature were found disemboweled and skinned in their homes. Some people tried to move, but I heard them say it was like they were chained here. The creature was holding everyone here, keeping everyone who had seen it captive in this town. I’m the last surviving person who saw the Wanderer on the Tracks, and my time is coming soon. How did I last this long? I don’t know. I bet its teasing me, torturing me, making me shit my pants every time I turn a corner. It’s taken a hold of my life and I can no longer function like other people.

I can no longer go out in the dark. My windows are always closed, the blinds always down, the doors always locked. I’ve tried to kill myself multiple times, but I can’t. It won’t let me. Recently, I’ve been hearing the dying screams of my dying friends. I’ve heard a bucket clanging from outside my window. Tapping on my front door at night. It’s a sign.

It’s coming for me soon.

Original Story

Music by Myuu

31 Days of Halloween: The Witches and the Circle by Eric Dodd

My great-aunt had died the year before. Her house was locked up in probate until issues of inheritance were settled. My father was acting as caretaker of the property, which meant I took care of the place while my old man bought booze with my great-aunt’s money. I didn’t mind; it got me out of my place, away from my old man, and it made a nice place to have parties and hang out with my friends. My friend Chris loved the place. I think he also needed a place to hide, somewhere away from his own house with all of his dead mother’s things lying around, right where she left them, before a sleep-deprived truck driver snuffed out her life like a candle on a store-bought birthday cake.

Our big plan was to host a Halloween party, just for our small group of friends. Chris quickly latched onto the idea of having a seance, and spent a lot of his time at the library, or at some of the local used book stores, researching. I told him it was no big deal, that it was just a stupid party trick, but he insisted on getting it ‘right’. I guess Chris was messed up about his mother’s death. I should have thought about that, about why he was so concerned with contacting the dead, but he didn’t talk about her very much, and as I’ve said before, I was stupid. There are things that happen when you are nineteen that stay with you. You don’t think they will, but they do. If that’s not the definition of haunted, I don’t know what is.

I met Chris as he was walking back from the dollar store that evening. He was carrying several bags of Halloween candy, some chips and a few bottles of soda. He climbed into my car, and I drove us on to the house. He dumped the candy into a large plastic bowl, and smacked my hand when I tried to filch some. “That’s for the trick-or-treaters, jerk,” he said. As the afternoon faded into evening, the trick-or-treaters did show up, giggling in their Spiderman and Incredible Hulk masks. I doled out candy, while Chris ordered pizza and set up the food on the kitchen table.

Pete, Liz, and Sophia arrived by eight. I was excited that Sophia had shown up; I had been crushing on her for months, but at six four, one forty, and bright red, curly hair, I looked like a scarecrow that tried to dress up like Ronald McDonald. Sophia was tiny, cool, beautiful, with jet black hair and skin that may have never seen sunlight. She was my secret reason for having the party. I didn’t stand a chance, but a guy could hope. Liz was Pete’s longtime girlfriend. She was almost as tall as me, with a shaved head, several piercings, and full sleeve tattoos on both arms. I’m pretty smart, but Liz was a genius. She aced every exam without trying, and was taking college level classes in ninth grade. We had been friends for several years, and had shared several classes at high school until she dropped out halfway through twelfth grade. The vice principal told her in no uncertain terms that she would not allow a “tattooed freak” like Liz to represent the school as the Valedictorian. Liz broke the woman’s jaw in two places, and that was pretty much it for Liz’s public education.

Pete was wrecked when he walked through the door. I had been friends with Pete since we were toddlers; his mother had worked with mine at the same hospital, before my mother left town. I loved Pete like he was a brother, but he had several bad habits, self-destruction being high on the list. He nodded his hello, then staggered to the cabinet where my great-aunt kept her liquor, and liberated a bottle of peach schnapps. By nine, Pete had retired to the monstrous old red couch in the living room, cold cloth over his eyes and a bucket by his side.

“Why’s he over-indulging?” I asked Liz, as we shoved the furniture out of the way. Chris and Sophia rolled up the large area rug, exposing the hardwood floor beneath.

“Failed his driver’s license exam,” Liz said, rolling her eyes.

“Again?” Chris said, brushing his thick brown hair out of his eyes. “This is what, his fifth time to take it? I thought they just gave it to you out of pity after five tries.”

“At least he didn’t vomit blueberry pancakes on the instructor’s shoes, like he did last time,” Sophia said.

The heavy old grandfather clock in the living room bonged ten times. Chris stood up. “OK everybody, let’s get started.” Liz tried to get Pete to join us, but he was fast asleep. Chris returned to the room carrying a large wooden box. He opened the box, and removed a small jar of salt, and several candles. He motioned for us to sit in a circle, and he poured the salt in a double ring around us. He poured another, smaller double ring a few feet away, in front of the fireplace. He then carefully taped down several pieces of paper, onto which he had previously drawn strange geometric symbols. I took the candles and positioned them at points around the circles, then lit them with my Zippo.

Chris motioned for us all to sit within the larger circle. He dimmed the lights and joined us. We took our positions around a small wooden tool box. The circle was small. When Sophia sat next to me, her knee touched mine. I tried to concentrate on something other than her perfume. Chris folded open the top, and removed a metal bowl, which he placed onto a metal stand. He pulled some pieces of wood from the box, put them in the bowl, and lit them. He pulled a fabric-shrouded object from the box, and placed it in front of him. The dark cloth revealed a book bound in black leather, and when Chris opened the yellowed pages, instead of being brittle, they turned with an odd ease. Chris flipped through the pages, and when he stopped, the sallow pages lay slackly open, without a hint of curling. He began a low chant, in a singsong rhythm. While chanting, Chris dropped wads of dried herbs into the metal bowl. Heavy, acrid yellow smoke billowed up, stinging our eyes.

“Ancient spirits,” Chris said, as we stared at him with rapt attention, “Ancient spirits, hear us. We beseech you. Ancient spirits, hear our call. Ancient spirits, answer us. Ancient spirits, come to us. Ancient spirits, the way is open. Ancient spirits, take this offering, and come to us.” Chris ran a scalpel, a scalpel that none of us had seen, across the palm of his hand. Liza recoiled in shock. The blood sizzled as it met the flames in the bowl.

“Jesus, Chris!” Sophia said. He shushed her with a glare.

“Ancient spirits!” Chris called. “Hear us! The way is open! Answer our—”

The doorbell chimed.

We all jumped, including Chris. The doorbell chimed again. Through the door, we heard muffled voices. “Trick or treat!”

Sophia huffed and rolled her eyes. “The ancient spirits are here, and they want candy. I thought you turned off the porch light?” She stood up, and walked to the door. She flipped on the porch light, and opened the door. Two little kids were standing there, both dressed like witches, with pointy hats and green masks. They giggled, shoved their widespread pillowcase sacks towards Sophia, and yelled “Trick or treat!” at the tops of their lungs. Sophia looked around for the candy dish, then saw it on the kitchen table. It was empty, save for some wrappers.

“Sorry kids. We’re all out. That’s what it means when the porch light’s off.”

The kids looked at each other for a moment. “Can we come inside for a minute, ma’am? My sister really has to go to the bathroom.” Sophia nodded, and stood aside as two little pointy witch hats bobbed past. As the shorter of the pair went to the bathroom, the taller stood near the couch, next to Pete. She said nothing, and was very still. I found myself sneaking glances at her mask. It seemed far too elaborate for a child’s mask, and the black pits that hid her eyes seemed to drink in the light.

There was a crash from the hallway leading to the bathroom. Chris and I jumped to our feet, and ran to see what had happened. The smaller of the two children kneeling at the entrance to the hallway. “I’m really sorry. I broke the mirror on the wall. My hat is too big and it must have caught the frame. I tripped. I can’t see where I’m going.” She tilted her head down, and began to cry, softly.

“It’s just a cheap old mirror,” Chris said. He extended a hand — his cut hand, I thought to myself, without knowing why — and pulled her up. “It’s getting late. Your parents must be worried.”

“Yes, it’s almost midnight. Sister, we should be going.” We turned to see the sister leaning over Pete’s sleeping form, green mask pressed close to his ear.

“Hey, what are you doing to Pete?” Liza said. She stood and walked towards the taller child.

“He was sleeping,” the taller witch said, shrugging. Her rubbery, pointed green nose bobbled. “I was telling him to have sweet dreams.”

The two children left, clutching their pillowcase sacks and jostling each other as they walked down the sidewalk. I watched them go, and as I saw them turn the corner, I think that I may have seen them both take turns licking at the smaller one’s hand.

We shut off the lights, bolted the front door, and re-lit a few candles that had gone out. Chris picked up his book again as we rejoined him inside the salt circle. “Ancient spirits, hear us!” he cried. “Ancient spirits, we call you. Ancient spirits, hear our call. Ancient spirits, answer us!” The old grandfather clock began to toll, the first of twelve. Chris sprinkled more sage into the redly-glowing metal bowl. “Ancient spirits, we beseech you!”

A candle went out.

Sophia snorted, and put her hand on mine. My heart slammed to a stop — then I realized that she was only trying to pull the Zippo I had been fidgeting with out of my hand. She winked, then reached over to light the candle. Another candle went out. And another. The room was plunged into a murky darkness, only lit from the flickers of the coals in the metal bowl. “O-ok,” said Chris, with only a slight tremor to his voice. “The ancient spirits have heard our call and have responded.” He shifted slightly, and closed the box. On the top of the box was an ornate inlay of letters and numbers, in the style of an Ouija board. Chris drew a small white planchette from his shirt pocket, and beckoned for us to place our hands upon it. We moved the planchette on the board in small, slow circles. “Ancient spirits, are you here with us?”

Something crashed in the kitchen.

I made as if to get up, and Chris motioned for me to stop. “Don’t leave the circle,” he said. “Stay inside the circle. Never break it. Nothing can harm you if you don’t cross the boundary.” We placed our hands back on the planchette.

“Ancient spirits, are you here with us?” Chris asked again. The planchette slowly moved to a corner. YES. Boards creaked in the darkened room around us.

“This is too spooky, Chris,” Sophia said. “It feels like something’s watching us. It — oh.” Sophia looked down. In the twitching, red glow of the flames, a shadow seemed to spread across Sophia’s chest. She looked up at us and opened her mouth to speak. A flood of blackness flowed out of her mouth and down her chin. She slumped forward, knocking over the metal bowl. The burning coals scattered.

“Sophia!” I lunged toward her. A smoldering coal burned my hand, but I didn’t feel it. I could only think about Sophia’s beautiful hair. It was on fire. “Get the lights!” Chris yelled, standing. He shoved me off Sophia, out of the circle. I scrambled to my feet. I could see nothing in the inky blackness. Liz was screaming, over and over. A wall should have been inches away, but I felt nothing. I reached out frantically. My fingertips caught something, the sleeve of a shirt? It jerked away. There was a blinding, burning pain on my arm. I fell flat and away, clutching the wound. Blood soaked through the sleeve of my shirt. I crouched low, trying to see something, anything. I turned back to the circle. Liz’s face, mouth an O of surprise, jerked backward. Her slashed throat sprayed blood across the room. It smelled like copper.

I turned to the right, arm out. I ran. My hand slammed into a doorway with force. A fingernail peeled back. I dropped to my knees, then crawled forward. My fingers met the cold steel of the refrigerator. I flung the door open. Light flooded the kitchen. I huddled in the corner, shaking. I heard a racking scream from the other room. Chris! I snatched a heavy, cast iron frying pan from the stove. Heavy pan raised high, I stood to the side of the doorway. Blood trickled into a pool in the elbow of my shirt. I heard the slow slide of footsteps. There was a low whispering breath. I was paralyzed. What if it was Chris? Or Sophia? Light glinted off of the butcher knife.

I swung as hard as I could. My lips peeled back in a rictus grin, I grunted an involuntary “HAA!” The edge of the cast iron pan caved in Pete’s face as if it were a Sunday morning egg. He went down in an untidy heap. I swung and swung, bashing his head until it was a lumpy mess. Until his body stopped twitching. Still clutching the pan, I ran for the front door.

It took me an hour to reach the front door. The front door could not have been farther than fifteen feet away. It felt like miles. As I stumbled and crawled to the door, terrible things whispered to me, laughed at me, mocked me. I saw the dim shapes scuttle away as I looked, eyes straining to see my attackers. They darted in and gouged my flesh with claws and hot, grasping hands. I flailed blindly in the dark with the frying pan, but they only laughed. When I did reach the door, it was locked. I smashed the antique stained glass with a blow, then climbed through it, lacerating my hands and arms more in the process.

The official police report states that Peter McCaulty, nineteen-year-old Caucasian Male, several priors including vandalism and possession, was under the influence of a large amount of controlled substances (traces of Adderal, Effexor, PCP, psilocybin, and certain other unidentified), experienced a psychotic break, and killed several people. Initially I was suspect number one. A police officer found me walking down the middle of the street, covered in blood and bleeding from dozens of cuts, fist clenched tightly around a cast iron pan. The police took a dim view of my story, and once it was determined that drugs had been involved, they ignored it completely. As far as the cops were concerned, a bunch of kids took some acid on Halloween. They played at a ‘Satanic’ ritual, then one went off his rocker and killed a few of the others. It happens every Halloween.

I was remanded into psychiatric custody for two weeks. It was only after I was released that I found out that the police had only recovered three bodies, not four. They never found Chris, or any trace of him.

I have never gone back to that house. I think about going back, every night. I take my meds, meds that make me forget, mostly, and suppress the whispers that I hear in those long black hours before dawn. But sometimes, I still hear them. Every year, as Halloween approaches, the voices get louder, even if I up my dose. They tell me terrible things. They tell me it was my fault. They tell me I was the one with the knife.

Original Story

Music by Myuu

31 Days of Halloween 2017 | Day 1 | A Halloween to Remember

halloween treeMy friends and I decided to go trick or treating this year. We were teenagers that wanted some candy and to TP houses. We lived in a massive neighborhood, so there was a lot to go around. After two hours of going around the streets, egging and TP-ing houses and a very lucky escape from the police, we were ready to end the night.

We all stopped at a dark street.

“Should we go?” one of my friends asked.

“Ok, one more street,” another friend replied.

I stared down the dark street, unable to see the end. There was something odd about this street, like it didn’t belong. The houses were completely different from the ones in the neighborhood. The houses looked abandoned and there were no lights either in the street or the houses.

“I got a bad feeling about this, guys…” I said.

“Don’t be a pussy, David; we’re just gonna egg some houses and leave. If they do call the cops again, we’ll sneak out of here. This place is freaking pitch black,” my friend replied.

We walked down the coal black street, joking around and telling ghost stories, as I just couldn’t help feeling watched. Houses looked very different, and didn’t look stable. I knew something was up, I just knew it. The light from the other street began to become dimmer and dimmer.

“OK, here.” We took a bag full of eggs and toilet paper. We were cursing and having fun, I almost forgot to be worried. CRACK! A loud noise echoed in the street.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Everybody, hide NOW!” my friend yelled.

I saw all my friends scramble around the block. I hid behind a rusty trash can, looking over the edge. I couldn’t see anything because it was so dark. I only could see a blue outline of the houses. I took out my phone for some light. No signal at all on my cell phone. Didn’t they build over a dozen cell phone towers all over the area?

I shined my light towards the street. CRACK!!! This time it was even louder. I pulled back and look over again. All of my friends were there, standing in the middle of the street.

“So what do you think that was?” I questioned, walking towards them.

They didn’t respond.


“There something about your soul I cannot take, but I’ll find a way.” They all said at the same time.

“What the fuc…” They all charged towards me.

I ran and ran the darkness seemed to continue on forever. I didn’t hear them chasing after me, but I didn’t stop. I kept looking for a source of light, or just anybody. I slammed my face into a wall. I got up to see a giant skyscraper outlined in blue and a plenty fill of them. It was a city without light. I stood there, completely shocked. A lot of questions flew into my mind: What just happened? Where am I? Can I get back? These questions flooded my mind. A loud growl roared behind me. I turned around to see wolf-like creatures blended in the darkness.

“Shit!” I whispered to myself.

I stood there, looking straight at the creature. I regret my decision after that. I ran as fast as I could. Hearing the creature’s paws hitting the concrete.

I stopped at an alley. “I think I’m OK,” I said to myself.

“You’re far from OK,” a similar voice responded.

I turned around to see an army of people standing. I tried to run, but another group blocked the other side if the alley. A tall man stood in front. He was dressed in black and was wearing a hoodie that block his face.

“What do you want from me?!” I yelled.

“I want your soul, like I did with all your little friends here. I use this realm to capture as many souls as I want.”

“You bastard!” I yelled back.

“You’re different, your soul is special and very hard to get, and what makes it harder that you’re protected, but no soul is strong enough to keep me out. Get ready to become my puppet.”

Then, they closed in on me. I felt like this was the end, and that I was going to be made his puppet and I couldn’t do anything about it. A stereotypical light shone down on me.

“Not him again!” the tall man said.

I woke up in my bed with my bag of candy and leftover eggs from last night. I looked at my digital clock, and it read:

“7:00 AM 11/1/11”

I laid there for a while, and wondered if it was all a dream. Whatever happened, I’m safe now. I got up to get ready for school, and saw a sticky note on my door, saying:

”I haven’t forgotten about you yet.”


Original Story: A Halloween to Remember

Music by Myuu

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

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

I Shouldn’t Have Stared at the Eclipse

Darkness. That is all I see day-to-day is darkness. OK MOST of the time I see darkness. Other times I see…ugh let me start by telling you what happened.

It was 1979 and my class was really excited. The whole town was excited! We were going to be right in direct line to a solar eclipse. We were warned by the teachers, the press, the parents, basically by every adult NOT to even look at the eclipse. Not just a tiny bit because it could cause blindness. We could go blind for just a few seconds, or we could go blind forever. No one really knows because people typically don’t just stare at the eclipse and those that do don’t tell you what really happens.

There is a darkness in the world that only happens when the bright light of the sun is blocked and the ultra violet rays are still present. People claim it is ok to look when the diamond ring or Bailey’s Beads are visible, but DO NOT DO IT! They will come for you. They will take your sight and then they will haunt you forever.

I know, because it happened to me. We were all so excited. We built our little reflection boxes so we could see the eclipse happening before our eyes. You can’t see them when you’re not blind. You can’t hear them either. Their very existence is blocked. So there we were, happy little kids watching a once in a lifetime event through silly little boxes. I was not pleased. I was an adventurous and undisciplined little brat. I wanted to see it with my own eyes.

As the moon started to cover the sun, it grew dark outside. Nothing was out of the ordinary except it started to get cold and dark. You could hear a pin drop it was so quiet. People were probably watching through their stupid handmade boxes. I looked around and noticed that none of the teachers were paying attention to us. The adults were so obsessed with seeing the eclipse as they that they didn’t care to notice if we were looking at all.

As it passed overhead and it grew dark enough to peek, I lowered my box enough to take a glimpse. It was beautiful, dazzling. There wasn’t complete darkness, but it was very dark. I stared in awe at the beautiful ring of the sun for about 30 seconds until I heard them. The growls and the whispers. The chatter was all around me and growing louder. Suddenly, I dropped my gaze and realized that all I could see was that ring of the sun. I closed my eyes tight and rubbed them. The reflection of the ring wouldn’t go away–and neither would they.

When I opened my eyes I couldn’t see anything. Suddenly, I felt a scratch on my leg. I looked down and saw it. At first I thought it was a rat, but then I noticed it had a malnourished human body. It’s blanched skin was stretched tightly over its bones. Long, razor sharp fingernails protruded from the tips of its fingers and toes. It looked up at me and smiled this hideous grin with razor sharp teeth and a mouth that stretched from ear to ear. It’s wretched fingernail trailed down my leg and blood started trickling down in little droplets. The cut wasn’t enough to cause major bleeding, but it was obvious. It licked the droplets with a long, snakelike tongue then smiled for more.

I jumped back, suddenly aware that I couldn’t see anything. When I fell into Houston, the fat and ugly school bully, he pushed me then I slammed into Julia and stepped on her toes through her sandals. When she screamed, I felt someone grab my forearm and start to shake me. “Jennifer! Are you okay? Did you look at the sun?”

It was my teacher’s voice. She put her arm around me and helped me back to the office where I waited while the school nurse bandaged up my leg. It was quiet in here. There was no whispering or ugly little creatures waiting to carve my skin into a fresh meal. I closed my eyes and curled up on the nurse’s table and fell asleep.

A few minutes later my mother rushed into the room, waking me up. For a moment I had forgotten all about the little creatures. I could see the outline of my mom, but nothing else. If I focused on one object I could see the outline, but not the object itself. It was all a huge blur. I heard her thanking the nurse and then dialing the phone to call our doctor. I just sat there–a little shocked but wondering if what I had seen was real.

My mom helped me to sit in a wheelchair the school owned for emergencies and I could hear the nurse and teacher not far behind as my mother wheeled me outside. There they were, outside playing in the grass and jumping in front of cars with the cars never hitting them. I looked in all directions and those things were everywhere. Scrawny little human demons laughing at us as went through our  boring, daily lives.

There was one with blood on its claws. It laughed with the others as if telling a crude joke and then it noticed me. The slender tongue licked its lips and its eyes never left mine. I could see all the bones working on the scraggy body as it inched its way toward me, smiling and licking its lips. It jumped on me, tearing the flesh on my arms with its tiny little claws. I kicked and screamed wildly, “Get it off of me!” I cried out with my arms flailing like crazy.

My mom cradled me and put me into the car as I screamed and just like that it was gone. I would think I was losing my mind, but I knew the scratches were there. My arm burned where those hideous claws slapped me. Mom held my hand as she drove me to the doctor and calmed me. We pulled into the parking structure and walked to the elevator. I noticed the demons all playing in the sunlight, but not inside the parking lot realizing they can’t play outside of the sun.

“Mom, can’t you see them?” I sobbed.

“See what, honey?” She knelt down in front of me and wiped my tears away.

“The little demons. They’re everywhere, but not in here. Not inside of buildings or the car, only in the sunlight.”

“No honey, there are no little demons. Oh look at that, you must have scratched yourself in your tantrum,” she used a tissue from her purse to wipe up the droplets of blood on my arm.

“They’re there mom and they’re waiting for me!”

The doctors all thought I was in shock after losing my eyesight and gave mom some meds to put me on so I could sleep. I refused to go outside ever again. I can see them playing in my yard during the day. At night they all disappear. My parents think I have an anxiety disorder and I just pass it off as such. I won’t leave my house ever again because I can see things no one else can and if they realize that I can see them then I am dead.

The Gristers by Unknown

Okay /x/, or whatever creepy board this makes its way on to -I put it here because I thought it’d get to the most people to whom it was relevant.
If you are one of those people who are inherently drawn to horror, you’re in real danger. I don’t know what it is exactly- I don’t pretend to know everything that’s going on, and in fact I, myself, used to be drawn to the more realistic, non-supernatural creepypastas. But… well, let me explain.

About a year ago, I was up at three in the morning, you know, that part of the night where you’re so deep into it it feels like it will never end. Anyway, I was up, clicking around, looking for a good creepypasta I hadn’t read before, really getting myself freaked out. You know the feeling, I’m sure. You LIKE the feeling. That’s the problem.

Anyway, I’m reading, and I hear a pattering sound coming from the kitchen. I had a cat, so I just assumed it was her. But then I glance on my bed, and my cat is there. Now I’ve been freaking myself out for a while here, so I was nearly trembling with fear as I opened my bedroom door. I live alone, in a single bedroom apartment, with just a bedroom, a kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom. My bedroom door opens up on to the kitchen. It was pitch black, the moonlight gleaming off the linoleum. I strained my ears and listened. I heard nothing.

I admonished myself for being such a fucking pussy. It was just random house noises, right? Or maybe a fucking mouse in the walls. I was about to turn around and head back into my room when I heard it again. And I saw something scatter across the linoleum in the kitchen, heading for the bathroom.

It was small, but it was definitely not a rat. The limbs were way, way too long. The torso was far too high off the ground. And the way it moved… it moved quickly, but so awkwardly. In any other circumstance I might have laughed at it. As it was I was scared shitless.

So, you know, I basically freeze for like ten minutes. It was the size of the thing that convinced me to move. No matter how weird, or fucked up it was, it was so much smaller than me. It couldn’t have been that dangerous, right?

So I pop open the bathroom door. Before I turn on the light, I do a quick scan. Nothing. I flick the switch. I look around. Still nothing. I look on the ceiling, even. I throw the shower cutrain open. Nothing still.

What could it have been? My mind started inventing explanations. It definitely had four limbs… maybe it was a big ass spider who had lost four of its legs somehow? That could explain the awkward movement. It was good enough for me. I was about to go back to bed when I thoungt, on a whim, to use my broom to poke behind the toilet, between the wall and the base of the seat.

When I did, I hit something solid, and it scurried out. It looked like a tiny human.

It was pale white, pale as a maggot, with dirty gray streaks running along its skin. It moved on all fours, with long, thin fingers that grasped the ground. Its skull was completely bald and it had no eyes and the skin looked like it had been torn away from the lower half of its face, leaving the exposed teeth and gums. It looked up at me… well, pointed its face in my general direction, anyway, and then scurried, quick as fuck, up the side of the bath and down into the drain. It moved in quick bursts, like a spider, and climbed straight up smooth surfaces like one too.

After it disappeared down the drain, I just stood there, frozen, broom handle still in my hand, for a good five minutes.

I was scared shitless. I slowly backed out of the bathroom, and closed the door, and then stuffed a blanket in the crack between the floor and the door, fearing that it might come out.

Then I sat in my bed and wondered what I could do. I mean, it wasn’t like I could call the police. Or even tell any of my friends. It’s not like they’d believe me.

So what did I do? I made a thread on /x/. This was quite a while ago, almost a year. You might even remember it. It wasn’t anything special, and it didn’t even get that many responses before falling of the boards. I guess people thought I was just joking, which really I would have thought the same thing- my thread, in retrospect, sounds exactly like the type of threads I hate. But besides from all the ‘OP is a fag’ and ‘SAGE’ responses, there was one other one.

“I’ve seen them too man email me”, along with an email address that I’m not going to give out here.

So I email this kid, right? Right away he responds and we start up a conversation in IRC. He introduces himself as Jon, and basically tells me a very similar story -one night a few months ago, reading creepypasta, heard a noise, got up, saw the small pale man. His was a bit bigger -he said it was the size of a cat- but he also told me one other thing.

That I’d be seeing more of them. He said that ever since he saw the first one, he’s been seeing more and more of them -out everywhere, even in the street, during the day. They were everywhere, he said and once you notice the first one, it got a lot easier to see all the other ones. He had no idea what the were, and he hadn’t figured out their behavior yet. He said that usually when he saw them or heard them in his own home, he was reading creepypasta, so they usually freaked him out something awful -but, he said again, he had never actually seen them do anything terrible, just scurry out of sight. But, he said, some got pretty big, and not all of them looked exactly the same.

I still didn’t sleep that night.

But over the next week, and those that followed, I found that I did get used to them. I did see more of them. I’d glimpse them out of the corner of my eye, or see the retreating rear end of one crawling into a gutterpipe, or see their tiny faces staring out at the street from the sewers.

Some, it seemed weren’t even trying to hide. I live in Providence, Rhode Island, which is a small city. On my way to work one day (I take the bus) I was looking out the window and saw a pretty large one, as large as a medium-sized dog, trotting along the sidewalk. People were just walking by it. Actually, I think that a lot of people saw it as a dog. One man stopped to scratch its head.

I’d always email Jon and tell him about all the appearances I saw. I even tried to catch some on camera, but they always heard the mechanical whirring and darted away before my camera could take a picture. I told myself I’d have to take a picture of one of the bigger, slower ones.

But either way, as the weeks wore on, I became more and more used to them. Sure, they were as creepy as shit, and I could never sit down on the toilet and enjoy a long crap anymore because I was paranoid as fuck they’d climb up into the bowl and bite me on the asshole. But they weren’t really doing anything harmful. They unnerved the fuck out of me, but so did big spiders. I could live with them. Jon called them the Gristers, because he said they reminded him of the Grister meme on /x/ for some reason. I’m pretty sure he meant the Grifter meme, but the name ‘Grister’ stuck.

I continued my exchanges with Jon, but I noticed that he was becoming more and more tense. It was hard to tell over the text, but really that was the only way to put it. I just figured that once the novelty of a shared experience had worn off, we didn’t really have much to talk about. Jon wasn’t really my type -he was a steroid-pumping body builder in southern florida who lived with his mother.

But we started discussing Grister behavior, and he said his were starting to act a bit more differently than the ones I saw. He’d wake up at night and they’d be perched at the end of his bed, staring at him with their eyeless faces. They wouldn’t scurry away anymore. He said he woke up one time because one of them had actually started touching his face.

That seemed unnerving. This whole time I had been putting out inquiries on the internet to see if anyone else had experienced this phenomenon -I couldn’t be the only one. But no one came forward. On /x/, most of my threads about the subject got saged, so eventually I stopped asking. But I have an inquisitive mind. I wanted to know what these things did, what exactly they were. I even wanted to capture one. I left out food and mouse traps, but none of these things ever went for it.

My cat would notice them, though. She’d hiss at them, and even chased them a couple of times. All those times I had seen her do that and assumed she was being a dumbass cat, chasing at nothing.

One night, I was walking home from work alone -I work at a call center for a police charity, and my house is about six miles away. I’d had to stay late, so there was no bus to come pick me up, and I didn’t really have all that many friends, so I had to walk. Anyway, I was walking past some old, abandoned brick houses -creepy shit, let me tell you- when I heard some weird, low groan.

That’s when I happened to notice that there were a lot more gristers than usual here. They were mostly ignoring me, but they were scurrying in and around one particular brick house. The groaning sound seemed to be coming from the alley beside it.

Now, a lot of gristers was creepy enough, even without that low groaning noise. What made me decide to investigate? I don’t know. Morbid curiosity. I’m always looking for some creepy/gore stuff to post on the boards. I thought that maybe that the groaning was some kind of wounded animal.

So I approached the side of the house, noting that the windows were boarded up. The groaning… I should have known then it was no animal. It was a low, creaking, gurgling sound. It didn’t sound like any fucking animal I knew.

So I snuck down the alley, and when I saw what was making the noise, I nearly pissed myself.

It was a fat, humongous grister -at least eight feet wide, completely unable to move, with rolls of fat hanging down over its leg. It had no neck, just fourteen chins leading up to its macabre exposed jaw. Dirty drool ran down its chin to cover its obscenely huge belly. Smaller gristers crawled in and out of the rolls of its fat. It rubbed itself with a pudgy claw, making that groaning, gurgling sound, which seemed almost sexual.

It was terrible. I know it doesn’t sound like it -and objectively, I can think that a fat, cooing grister rubbing itself might sound pretty funny, actually. But in the presence of the thing, all I felt was a sick revulsion and disgust. But -BUT- I kept in mind one thing: that I had been looking for a picture of these things. So I busted out my cameraphone and snapped a picture.

I wish I hadn’t. If I hadn’t, I think maybe I could have lasted a little longer.

The minute I snapped the picture, the thing stopped groaning and swiveled its head toward me. All the gristers did, in fact. They all started hissing and screaming at me -a horrible fucking sound, like rusty nails on a chalkboard. I was thoroughly freaked out. To put things mildly, I lost my shit. I ran out of there as fast as I could. Ran all the way home. Gristers didn’t seem so harmless to me, now. That noise they had made was straight out of hell.

I didn’t feel safe with the lights off anymore. I flipped all the lights on, scaring the shit out of my napping cat. I slammed the bathroom door shut and stuffed a blanket around the cracks again. Then I sat down on my bed and looked at the picture I had taken.

There it was. Clear as day. That huge Grister. Just looking at it made me feel sick.

Of course I was going to post it on /x/.

I loaded it onto my computer and sent an email to Jon, with the subject “WILL YOU LOOK AT THIS FAT FUCK” Then I immediately came to /x/ and began typing up my thread. Explaining myself, explaining the gristers. Explaining the photograph. I was just getting ready to post when Jon sent me a message.

“Yo don’t show this shit to ANYONE”

I stopped. I replied to Jon, asking him what he was talking about.

He told me. He said that he thought he had figured out what was making the gristers around him more hostile. He said that he thought that when they figured out that you could see them, they started getting more aggressive. He showed me scratches he had all down his arm from them clawing at him at night. He said that he’d seen a lot more of the bigger ones hanging around his house at night. They watched him through his windows. They knew. They knew he could see them. And they didn’t like it.

And now, I was pretty sure they knew I could see them too.

So what did I do? In the end, I didn’t post the picture. I wasn’t TOO intimidated, but it probably saved a lot of you. I didn’t want to trigger anyone else into being able to see these guys if it had dangerous consequences down the road.

I didn’t notice any behaviour change right away. For a while, in fact. For about two weeks, the gristers acted just the same way they had before. I was beginning to thing that Jon’s problem was his own thing, and that the gristers didn’t know or didn’t care that I could see them.

And then things started happening so fast.

I woke up one night and there were four of them, just perched around my bed, staring at me. I freaked the fuck out and swept them away, and they just hissed that terrible noise at me and ran away.

I emailed this to Jon, who I hadn’t talked to otherwise. He didn’t respond. We hadn’t talked since I told him about the picture, and even rarely before then. After two days -during which the gristers began touching me in my sleep- I got an answer.

Jon was dead. His brother had the password to his email and was letting all his internet acquaintances know. He had commited suicide. Sliced open his wrists in the bathtub.

Jon didn’t seem like the type to commit suicide to me. Had things with the gristers really gotten that bad that they drove him to that? We didn’t really know each other very well, but he hadn’t mentioned anything to me. His brother said he hadn’t left a note. I gave him my condolences.

Now I had no one to talk to about this. I started looking online for more references or anything. All the while, the gristers were getting more and more aggressive. I’d look over my shoulder and there would be one or two on the windowsill, just staring at me. One time I opened the door to my apartment -I live on the third floor- and there was one about the size of a large dog staggering around at the bottom of the stairwell, pale face flashing in and out of the darkness, baring its teeth in a growl at me, pale limbs flashing as it bounded up the stairs. I slammed the door shut. I didn’t go to work that day.

Then I saw it on the news.

The house that I had seen the fatass grister at. I would have skipped right past the news story had I not seen the picture of the house.


Apparently some sick fuck had been using the basement of one of those abandoned houses as a place to keep women prisoner and kill them when they felt like it. It was a terrible fucking story, but one of the things one of the survivors said really struck me.

“We were just so terrified all the time. We never knew when he was going to come in and decide to kill one of us. When he was going to really hurt us while raping us. We were just so terrified all the time.”

Terrified all the time. And gristers had been all over the place. And when I first saw one, I had been reading creepypasta, and pretty freaked out. Same for Jon. Were these things drawn to fear?

Then I read that two of the survivors were being sent to a mental hospital for ‘hallucinations.’

Did they see the gristers?

I stopped sleeping. I didn’t want to wake up to those things staring at me. I stopped eating too. Whenever I wasn’t at work -which was more and more often, as I called out many times when I saw gristers bigger than a cat sniffing around my building for me -I was locked in my room, trying to hunt for information on the internet about these things. I just couldn’t find anyone who has actually seen them.

The gristers were getting more violent. They were starting to scratch me and bite me in those few scant hours that I actually did nod off to sleep. I’d always freak out and sweep them away, and they’d just hiss at me.

After about a week of this, I came home from work and found my cat dead. They had peeled all the skin away from her skull, giving her a look of shock. I quit my job. I cried for days. /x/, I don’t have many friends, and I really loved that cat.

They’re not stupid /x/. They don’t talk, and they act differently from us, but they do have intelligence. I went out for food last week. It was the last time I will ever go out. I was sitting at the downtown bus station, shivering, looking all around me for gristers, when the bus approached. I got up to get on.

And out of nowhere a grister, the size of a normal human, just bent over and walking their weird, loping gait, slammed into the back of the woman next to me and threw her in front of the bus. She had no chance. I saw her slide under the wheels of the bus, I saw her blood and ruined organs squeezed out of her mouth like toothpaste. Everyone freaked out and panicked. As people rushed to her aid the grister turned toward me and grinned. I dropped my groceries and screamed, running back to my house, sobbing all the way.

They’re toying with me.

And that’s when I finally realized why there wasn’t anyone I could really talk to about gristers.

/x/, how many times, when people commit suicide, do you hear it reported that they were “suffering from hallucinations”? Read the reports of people who have been in terrible, frightening situations. Like that rape dungeon, or a war. how many of them “suffer from hallucinations”? Sure, a lot of them are actual hallucinations.

Some of them are the gristers.

And eventually, they figure out that you can see them. And they start fucking with you. And I don’t think everyone who they ‘kill’ is driven to suicide. I don’t think Jon commited suicide. I think they’re smart. I think they know how to make something look like a suicide. You’ll hear about it sometimes. You’ll read in a report about how someone commited suicide, but something just isn’t quite right about it. Like a man who went out and bought a new couch, and then cut his wrists on it.

And /x/, I’m convinced there was nothing special about Jon and me. I don’t think there’s anything special about anyone who sees these things. I think you’re just more likely to see them when you’re really scared, since that’s when they’re drawn to you.

I can hear them right now. It’s about three in the morning. It sounds like a really big one is outside of my apartment door. It sounds like it’s trying to gnaw its way through the wood. And so I’m taking the easy way out. I’d rather have a nice sharp knife slice my arms open than have my skin torn by those teeth.

So please. This is my warning to you. Stop reading creepypasta. I know you love it. I know you love frightening yourself. But you’ve got to stop. Every time you read it -every time you get that feeling of dread in your stomach- you’re drawing the gristers to you.

And if you don’t stop reading, at least, please. Never check out those sounds in the house when you do.