Old Elementary School | A Haunted Creepypasta


 

Original Story

Music by Myuu

As a kid, I always found myself to be bored. I always craved adventure, and so did my friends. Everyday seemed to be the same routine, and it usually ended up with us getting in trouble. We were kids and bored, we wanted to find something new, something exciting. And we found the old elementary school.

It had been closed for nearly fifty years and aging showed well on the sides of the building. Some cracks in the sides and plants crawling up the side. This school became our hideout. We went there every day and explored the place. It was a very odd place though, it seemed to have no end. What I mean by that is there seemed to be no other exits besides the front. Or so I thought.

My friends and I had been playing tag around the building once, and we saw another door behind the old school. There was another entrance. We tried and tried to get in through that way, since it was a different thing. The door though seemed to be stuck, or locked. There was just something about that door that I couldn’t put my finger on, but I wanted to open it. God, all my friends did, but I really wanted to open that door.

Over time, I grew tired of the elementary school. Or maybe I just grew scared. My last few days hanging out there had ended rather… strange. It always seemed that there were others in the building, I could always hear the sounds of footsteps or creaking of doors. The lights seemed to flicker with life on rare occasions even though they would never turn on for longer than a second. These things weren’t the creepiest things that had happened though, if anything it was the visions.

The visions came to me around three days before I had stopped going to the old hideout. I remember seeing these children playing outside or in the halls of the school, they wore old school uniforms and bright happy smiles. Something about them though, was off. Their teeth seemed to be… larger than they should’ve been. Those eyes were so much darker too. Then… There was the laughter. That horrible, sickening laughter. It didn’t sound like laughter even, it sounded like someone scratching a chalkboard or a fork sliding against a plate.

I haven’t been to the old hideout in years, and I assume that none of my friends have either. We had all grown apart and lost contact of one another, I was never really sure if they still ever thought of the elementary school or not, I know I did. Only a few days ago, I decided to go back and visit my old home and greet some old friends of mine. Luckily I had spare time so I decided the only thing I thought of, go see the old hideout.

Man, the place had way more vines on it but it hadn’t changed a bit otherwise. I went inside the old place and looked around. I hadn’t really noticed it as a kid but the place had a very strange eeriness about it. It was a little difficult to explain. As I was walking around, some old memories and thoughts came back to me. Then I remembered the door.

My friends and I never could find the door from the inside. It seemed almost impossible, every time we tried to find the door we’d get lost. Then again, we never really had good sense of direction then. I decided to go try to find the door again.

Now, walking around and looking for the door seemed to be more difficult then I had originally remembered or thought. I also had a really uneasy feeling, I felt as if there was someone following. I could swear to you I saw a few shadows or heard footsteps. The thought of the laughter came to my head and a feeling urged me to leave. I didn’t, I wanted to find that door badly.

The longer I stayed, the more I noticed. I could almost hear the laughter in the back of my head or see children run around corners when I wasn’t looking. I was paranoid. I wouldn’t leave until I found that damn door. Finally, I did. It was bright red, it stood out from the dull greys and browns of the school. A strange excitement filled me as I reached forward and touched the handle to the door and pushed open.

I walked outside… back to the entrance. It was the same as if I was leaving from the entrance. I turned around and saw the entrance door, not the back door. I knew I had left from the back, I was certain I had. How the hell did I get back there? I looked up towards the school… In the windows… I saw the faces of children. Staring at me, smiling… Then they started to laugh… Their ungodly laughter pierced my ears as I turned and ran…

This experience had left me scarred, I never once turned back. I had even told my mom about what happened, but she just smiled and laughed. Confusion struck me and I asked why she laughed when I told her about this. She looked at me, and answered. “You mean that old empty lot you and your friends used to sleep at? You called that place your hideout, you had so many friends. Around ten I think. And all you guys would do would sleep in that old lot.”

I hadn’t said anything else. I was shocked. I only had 4 friends at the time…

Our Haunted Thanksgiving by Spooky Boo


What happens when we cross over to the afterlife? Do we take our bodies with us? What about our minds? In this story a family thinks it knows what happened to one of the members of the family and her dissociative identity disorder (multiple personality disorder) until her ghost tells the true story!

Unfortunately, the text to this file went out the window with the old website so I will need to transcribe it at some point. Enjoy the verbage!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

The House That Death Forgot | A Creepypasta by Josh Parker


Original Story

Music by Myuu

Melinda hated driving at night. She did her best to avoid it. Short trips to the store if she just realized she ran out of tampons or had nothing for dinner after getting home — that sort of thing happened now and then. But she did her best not to go out after dark unless someone was coming to pick her up.

So, naturally, she found herself on the longest drive of her life tonight, with no moon, few stars, swirling clouds above her, and acres of forest on either side.

As so many unpleasant things in her life, this was her father’s fault. She hadn’t seen or spoken to the bastard in fifteen years, but just after falling asleep tonight…no, that was wrong. It would be yesterday by this time. Out of the blue, her phone rang, and his voice was on the other end.

“I need you, Mellie. Please come, now.”

He’d said just that, and then the line went dead.

The old ass was probably drunk, but he’d never called her before — not since she was a child and he was still trying to convince her mother to take him back. It felt like she had been dreaming — waking up to hear his voice again after all these years. It sounded like he was crying. His voice sounded just the same as the last time she’d heard it.

As though in a dream, she had risen, dressed, and gotten in the car. She was well out of town and halfway to his old place before realizing that she had no way of knowing if he even still lived there. She received updates from her mother from time to time over the years about where he was. The last time she heard from her mother about him was seven years ago. Had he ever stayed in one place that long?

Not to her recollection. She had been seven when her mother finally had enough and showed him the door. Prior to that, a move had come every few months. The house they had been living in was their longest stay in one place; a full sixteen months. It turned into two years after that, and then the next house had been the one she left when she moved out on her own. In all that time, she heard from him sporadically at best, and had finally decided it was best to simply forget about him.

Until tonight.

She had found out after a two-hour drive that she had been right to wonder if he was still in the same place. His last known address was a sketchy apartment in a low-income area of the town she had grown up in. Had he been number 24 or number 42? Maybe he was 14. It definitely had a four. It didn’t matter. His name wasn’t on any of the buzzers.

Bastard! Her drunk of a father had called her at night, all but demanding she come to him for reasons he didn’t even feel were important enough to tell her over the phone, and then just expected that she would know where he lived now.

In a flurry of rage, she turned and marched back to her car, slamming the door and starting off in the direction she came. She was so angry she didn’t even look where she was going and missed her turn-off.

The next thing she knew, she was on this lonely stretch of road. Cars were sparse, but she took some comfort in the fact that she would pass one every half-hour or so. Her dashboard clock now read 2:27 AM. She had been driving for more than five hours since leaving her house. At night.

Every five minutes or so, she checked her cell phone. Ever since realizing she was lost, she had checked her phone and found no bars at all. She even stopped at a gas station (closed, of course), just sure there should be some service around here somewhere, but nothing.

Take stock of your life, Mellie, she thought. You’re over thirty, you hate your job, you and your mother don’t get along, you haven’t seen or spoken to your father in just under half your life, you have no time for your friends or a relationship thanks to the aforementioned job you hate, and now here you are, trapped on a road you’ve never been on before, at night, and you can’t even so much as call AMA let alone check Google Maps. Smart lady you are.

She briefly considered stopping and flagging down the next car that passed. She quickly realized the futility of that plan. Any car on this road would also have no service. So there was nothing for it. She’d have to drive until she saw a house. She’d feel bad for waking someone up, but there was no choice. She needed to find her way back to the main highway.

But so far, all that she could see on either side was trees. Mile after mile of trees. No lights shining through the boughs. No sign that anyone had ever been here before except that there was a road and people were obviously still driving on it.

There weren’t even any road signs other than the mile markers. Had she really found the middle of nowhere? She was just in the middle of this thought when her headlights illuminated something just up the road; a square, wooden sign — obviously made by someone other than the government. This wasn’t a gas/food/lodging sign, or a mile marker, or a distance-to sign. This looked like the kind of signs advertising a private business was nearby. She slowed down to read it.

 

Granny Royce’s Road House
Come stay the night at Granny’s!
She’ll take good care of you!
Room! Board! Low Prices!
Next Exit!

Her heart sped up. She certainly wasn’t interested in spending a night at Granny Royce’s, but every business had a phone. At the very least, she’d have a map, or know the way back to the highway. She decided she would stop there.

She almost missed the turn. Granny Royce’s Road House was buried at the back of a long, dirt driveway, secluded amid the trees. She was almost past the little dirt “road” that led back to it before realizing it was there. She skidded to a stop and turned in.

The little house lay ahead. It was two stories and looked to have about eight to ten rooms. Big for a home but small for anything announcing room and board. She got closer and looked for a vacancy sign. Nothing. It wasn’t that the sign wasn’t lit; there was no sign. The porch light was on and the front of the building was illuminated by that light and by her headlights. No signs of any kind.

She almost wondered if she’d gotten the wrong place, but she was certain that she had seen no other exits between this house and the sign announcing it.

She paused in the driveway and took out her cell again. Still no service. She did a quick search for any available wireless signals. To her complete lack of surprise, there were none. Not even any secured.

There’s no one here but me, she thought.

At this point, she wouldn’t be surprised to find the house empty as well. But the light was on and this was supposed to be a road house. Someone would be manning the front desk.

She got out of the car and headed for the front porch. As she turned around to make sure the lights flashed when she hit the lock button on her fob, she thought she could see a flash of movement in the trees. Something human-shaped. She stopped and looked again. Nothing. She decided she imagined it.

At the front door, she hesitated. If it really was a road house then she should be able to just go on in. But what if she got the wrong house? If she tried the door and just walked in, she could find herself arrested out here in Buttfuck, Nowhere.

Cautiously, she tried the knob. It turned. She pressed gently on the door. It opened. Relief flooded through her when she saw that she was in a small, but tastefully decorated foyer that had obviously been repurposed as an admissions area. A quaint desk with an honest-to-god guest book had been placed in the far right corner and some chairs had been set out, along with magazines on a table. She read the titles briefly—MademoiselleBlue BookThe New Country LifeArts & Architecture—before turning her attention to the little desk.

There wasn’t a computer. That was a cute touch. It was like the house was from a past era. Perhaps old Granny Royce really didn’t like modern technology. There was, however, a little bell, just like there would have been in 1929. It wasn’t even the round silver kind you slapped to ring; it was a little porcelain hand-bell. This place was starting to out-cute her.

Please let her have a phone, and please let it use the numberplan, not 50s exchanges.

She picked up the bell and gave it a shake.

For a while, nothing happened. Then she saw a light come on in the back room and the shadow of an old woman sprang up on the wall. The shadow moved toward her and within a few seconds, she saw its owner: Granny Royce, who perhaps looked like every grandmother in every storybook ever.

“Well, goodness me,” she said. “My lands. Good morning deary. Pardon my tardiness but it’s been a while since we got guests at this hour. Can I take your name, honey?”

Granny Royce was smallish, her grey hair tied in a neat bun behind her head, a dress that would have looked like it belonged to a senior citizen in the twenties, and a faded pink sweater. Melinda thought that she looked just like she would have wanted her own grandmother to look like, but her mother’s mother had died when she was young, and she’d never met her father’s mother. It almost hurt to deny this sweet little woman her business, but nevertheless, she had to get home.

“Actually, I’m sorry,” she began. “But the fact is I’m lost. I’m not even sure where I am in the direction of…”

“Oh, you poor thing,” said Granny Royce. “You just sit down and let me fix you some tea, or something. You must be cold.”

“Really, thank you, but I’m okay,” Melinda said gently. “I just need to use the phone, if I could, or if you’ve got a map, even that would be lovely. I really only live a couple of hours from here…”

She trailed off, not knowing if she was even right about that. She easily could have driven those five-plus hours in the wrong direction entirely.

“Oh dear,” said the little woman sadly. “I’m sorry, honey, but the phone lines are down. As for a map, well…I used to have one, and if I look I still might, but it’s probably quite out of date by now. The highway moved since then, I know that much.”

Melinda’s heart sank. How could her luck get any worse? No phone, cell or land line, and no map. What could she do? She had to get back home. She was expected to work at 8 AM tomorrow. And why were the phone lines down? The weather was coldish but clear. Were they fixing a line nearby?

She told Granny Royce the name of her town, but Granny only said “Believe it or not, I’ve never heard of that town. What did you say the name was?”

She told her again.

“No, doesn’t ring a bell. I’m sorry. But I could not say which direction it’s in. Why don’t you stay the night, sweetie. I’ll give you a discount for your trouble.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you. But I have work tomorrow and I need to get back home. I’m not even sure why I’m out tonight. The only reason I had doesn’t seem to matter anymore.”

“Honey, I wouldn’t advise trying to drive back that far tonight,” Granny Royce said. “Why, it’s almost three in the morning, and you’ve not had any sleep. Maybe the lines will be up in the morning, and you can call your work and let them know you’ll be late.”

“That won’t work, either,” she replied. “I’m the opener. No one will be there. No, I’m sorry, I’ve really got to leave. I’ll head in the other direction until I find the road I was on.”

At that, Granny Royce’s expression, already one of kind concern, seemed to shift somewhat — to one of fear. She paused, looking at Melinda as though she wanted to say something else to keep her inside. Finally she said, reluctantly, “Alright, honey, if you’re sure. Just you be careful, now. Don’t speak to nobody until you’re back on the road.”

That last warning seemed a little silly. After all, what was Melinda, a little girl? She thanked Granny Royce for her kindness and headed back to the car. About halfway to the car she remembered thinking she saw something moving in the trees. Her eyes scanned both sides of the secluded little cleared area she was in, looking for anything that appeared to be moving on its own rather than being blown by the slight wind. She saw nothing. Satisfied, she headed for her car. All four tires were flat.

Goddammit!

She leaned down and saw long slash marks on each tire. Someone in this little slice of Green Acres had slashed her tires in the time it took her to find out that she had no way of contacting anyone tonight.

Kids from a local farmhouse, gotta be, she thought grimly. Nothing else to do, so you might as well go out at night and slash tires.

She stopped and let the reality sink in. She wasn’t going anywhere tonight. She had no choice now; she had to stay the night here until morning, when hopefully the phone lines would be up and she could call someone from work to ask them to go in for her, and then AMA to get her tires dealt with. She sighed and walked back in the house. She could hear Granny Royce as she was walking back to her room. She had already turned off the lights. Resigned to her fate, Melinda rang the little bell again.

“That you, miss?” she heard Granny Royce call.

“Yes, it’s me,” she answered. “Sorry to be a bother. My name is Melinda Orton. Sorry I never mentioned it before. I guess I will take a room for the night, if the offer’s still good.”

“Oh, of course it is, deary,” said Granny Royce, re-entering the room and turning the lights back on. “Melinda. Oh, that’s such a pretty name, honey. Well. Let’s get you situated. You put your name and arrival time in the book there and I’ll get you a key. All the boarding rooms are on the second floor, and there’s only a couple left.”

“There are others here?”

This was surprising. Not a single car had been in the front lawn when she pulled in.

“Oh, yes, Miss Melinda.” Granny was puttering around in the adjacent room. “Mr. Norris, young Calvin, there’s a few of us here.” She came back out with a key in her hand. “Just out of curiosity, what made you change your mind?”

She seemed to brighten as she asked the question, as though relieved that Melinda would stay after all

“Oh, it’s probably just local kids getting kicks,” she said. “But I found my tires slashed.”

Granny stopped suddenly, her face twisted with concern and worry. Then she resumed, as though nothing was wrong.

“Nothing to be done for it, I suppose,” she said, with an err of sadness.

“Well, not until morning, at any rate,” said Melinda. “Then hopefully the lines will be up.”

“Oh,” said Granny Royce, distractedly. “Yes, hopefully.”

She led Melinda up the darkened staircase into an empty, quiet hall. Or perhaps not so quiet. From one end of the hall came the muffled sound of someone crying. Whoever it was was crying softly — not with anger or petulance or fear, but with deep sadness. It sounded as if crying was something this person was used to, but they were still unable to stop.

“Who is that?” she asked, pointing in the direction the crying was coming from.

“Oh, pay that no mind, honey,” said Granny. “That’s just Mr. Norris. He’s been like that a while. Older man, you understand. Not all there.” She tapped her temple.

“I understand,” Melinda replied, but wondered privately how an old, out-of-touch man would wind up at a road house. “Has he been here long?”

“A while, I’d say,” answered Granny. “Don’t really recall how long, exactly.”

How does he pay for room and board?

“I guess he doesn’t drive,” she said to the old woman.

“Actually, it doesn’t look like anyone else here has a car.”

Granny started at this, looking up with an almost guilty expression. “Oh, well,” she said. “That kind of thing is the business of the guests. I don’t ask about such things.”

She turned the key in the lock of the room she had led Melinda to, and opened the door. Turning on the light, she showed Melinda the quaint little room. Melinda thought it looked like stepping into the past. She could swear this room would have looked modern in the early fifties, at the earliest.

Come to think of it, so could the rest of this place, she thought. No wireless service, no computer, that old bell. And those magazines, they looked new, but…

That thought was cut off as Granny put the key on the nightstand and started in with instructions.

“Now, the bathroom is down the hallway there. You’ll be sharing with the whole floor, so please bare that in mind if you have to go. There’s a shower schedule on the door, as well. First come, first serve. You just add your name to the first available line and that’s the order the showers are in. I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, though. I’m sure you’ll be first in line. I get up at 6 AM sharp every morning and start breakfast, but you come on down whenever you’re ready and I’ll whip something up for you.

“Oh, and one last thing, my dear. I would strongly advise you not to leave the house until sun-up. You just never know what could happen out there. In the dark.”

“Of course,” she replied. I’d never go out there in the dark if I didn’t have to…

She stopped that train of thought right out of the gate.

After a few moments, she was alone. Alone, without anything to wear to bed, and nothing to shower, brush her teeth, or hair with in the morning. She sat on the bed and looked out the window, which faced front. Her car still sat where she had left it, the only thing for miles that seemed like part of her world.

And an expensive, over-large paperweight until I can get a hold of someone, she thought bitterly.

Despite the homeyness of the room, she felt an unwillingness to rise and shut off the light. Somehow the thought of going to sleep in this backward little room seemed unthinkable. So instead, she continued to sit and stare out the window. A figure in black detached itself from the shadows of the trees and made its way to her car.

The hell?! She jumped up and ran at the window.

The figure was tall, and seemed to be wearing a cloak made of night. She saw as its arm extended. In its hand was a long, jagged dagger. It dragged the dagger across the side of her car, leaving a long gash-mark in the paint and metal.

“Hey!” she shouted.

The figure kept dragging the dagger. She reached for the window to open it. It wouldn’t budge. She looked for a lock, but couldn’t see one.

“Hey!” she yelled again.

This time the figure raised its head. She could see the glint of two eyes under the hood. The figure raised the dagger, slowly, determinedly. It pointed it straight at her face. She leaped away from the window and ran for the door. A noise on the other side stopped her. Footsteps. Dragging, shambling footsteps. And crying. The sound of a person for whom deep, longing sadness is a way of life.

Mr. Norris!

She waited. Somehow, she just felt that she should let the old man pass before she opened the door. Before he got very far, however, she heard other footsteps – these much quicker and lighter — run up the stairs and stop near the door of her room.

Stop it!” hissed Granny Royce. “Go back in your room right now! You know better. She can’t see you yet. Hopefully she won’t have to at all. Now you go back in there. You’ve got no business being out at this hour anyway.”

What on Earth?

How could that sweet old woman talk to another human that way, let alone an old man with a foggy mind? She almost opened the door right then, but somehow her hand stopped, and waited until the shuffling, crying man had made his way back down the hallway. She heard his door open. She opened her own door just in time to see his foot, shod in a well-worn house-shoe, slide into his room. The door closed softly after him.

That poor man, she thought.

But now she was determined to find out what was going on. The punk outside in the Halloween costume slashing up her car followed by Granny yelling at an old man made her begin to understand that not all was well here. She went back down to the front desk area, which was completely unlit except for the moonlight and porch light coming through the window.

There was, however, a light on near the back room that Granny Royce had emerged from before. Melinda paused to take a look outside the front window. The maniac with the dagger was nowhere to be seen for the moment, but she was now determined that it was he that she had seen moving through the trees.

He could have killed me!

She strode in the direction of the light, seeing that it was the light to the kitchen. She kept going, expecting to find Granny Royce still puttering about with whatever an old inn-keeper did with herself during the early hours of the morning.

Instead, she found Granny sitting with a young man of about twenty. He had dark hair and a scruff of stubble and was wearing a dark brown corduroy shirt and khaki’s, along with a pork-pie hat. He looked like he was ready to go sell newspapers on a street-corner in the thirties. He was quietly sipping tea while Granny was admonishing him from the other end of the table.

“Now that was a horrible thing to say!” she said. “When I was your age, young men minded their manners!”

“That’s a laugh, talking about my age,” muttered the young man with a sneer. “And just how old are you? Do you even remember?”

“Calvin Davidson, you are trouble, young man,” she hissed back. Neither had noticed Melinda yet. “One of these days you’re going to say something you’ll regret.”

“Oh, come on, Granny, what could I possibly say that will make things worse than they already are?” demanded Calvin. “I mean, look at old Mr. Norris up there! Both of us are ol…um, hullo, miss. I didn’t know we had anyone else here.” He had just seen Melinda.

“Uh, hi,” she said.

She had the feeling she’d walked in on an old argument the two of them had had many times, and that did not concern her. Her fear and anger were forgotten for the moment. Calvin had been talking to Granny like a sullen kid, but something about what they were saying seemed…wrong.

“Can I help you, Melinda?” asked Granny Royce. “Is there something wrong with your room?”

That brought her back. “No,” she said. “The room is fine. But nothing else is! I mean, what on Earth do you even have a road house out here where it seems like no one ever stops? Why are most of the rooms full even though mine is the only car out there? Why did I hear you talking to Mr. Norris like he was a dog? And why would you want to make sure I didn’t see him?”

She got no further before Calvin cut her off.

“Good lord, she’s not even been here a night and she can see it. Why did you even let her in, Granny? Why don’t you just bolt the door? Hell, if I could go take down that sign don’t you think I would have, by now? Lord love a duck.”

There’s something you don’t hear many young men say, thought Melinda. She decided to ignore Calvin for the moment, otherwise.

“And besides that, there’s someone out there! He’s the freak who slashed my tires and he’s been out there messing up my car since then! And you can’t even call the police! Are you gonna tell me you’ve never had vandals out here before?”

There was a long pause in the room. Neither Granny nor Calvin seemed willing to break it. Calvin scratched at his neck. For the first time, Melinda noticed a red slash at his throat, half-hidden by his collar. It looked like either a very fresh scar or a slightly healed wound.

“Listen, miss, I don’t know your name,” he finally said.

“Melinda,” she told him.

“Melinda,” he repeated. “Melinda, I think you should sit down. I have to tell you something that you may find…troubling.”

Melina did not like how he said that. She also didn’t like the way his tone had switched from sullen child to serious adult. He looked several years her junior but he was talking to her like he was her uncle, or her boss. He swallowed a sip of tea and sighed.

Then he looked her straight in the face and said: “The reason I don’t have a car out there is that when I got here, no one my age, no one in my line of work, would have owned a car. It would have seemed like an impossible dream.”

“What…what are you talking about?” she asked, hesitantly.

“I worked in a textile mill,” he said. “The mill was shut down by the time I got here. Most businesses were. So I struck out on my own; a drifter looking for what work I could find. And I stopped here. Forever.”

“Businesses were shut down…I don’t understand,” said Melinda. “We’re having a rough time of it right now, but businesses are mostly staying open…”

“Not then, they weren’t,” said Calvin, sadly. “I arrived here…in 1929.”

Melinda blinked. Something had exploded behind her eyes.

“This place was new then,” said Granny. “My man and I had just opened it. And young Mr. Calvin was a sweet young lad of sixteen. I offered to take him on as hired help over my husband’s objections. Well, my husband was a well-meaning man, but he knew how to pinch a penny. T’was a year after I took Calvin on that Mr. Royce died. Calvin and I have been here ever since. And every few years or so, someone joins us.”

“Yep,” Calvin broke in. “Miss Tillie was first; she was a woman of ill repute who ran here, pregnant and scared that the man who’d run her trade up in New York was gonna find her and kill her. She and that baby…”

He broke off, now seeming on the point of tears.

“And then,” said Granny, “there was Mr. Standish. He was a traveling minister. He doesn’t travel anymore.”

“Mr. Norris got here in ’69,” said Calvin. “His story is probably the worst. He was a…well, he was a bank-robber, you see. Carried a pistol. And he didn’t like learning how long we’d all been here.” He paused, stood and walked to the kitchen window. “He tried to leave on his own, you see. He ain’t the first to try it. That was me, actually. I warned him not to try, but he wouldn’t listen. But when he got outside…and he met him…”

“Calvin!” hissed Granny. “We don’t talk about this!”

“She’s gotta know,” said Calvin. “There’s no point in her finding out slowly.”

“There’s still a chance for her!” said Granny in a stage whisper. “All she has to do is wait until morning…”

“She’s not going to wait until morning,” said Calvin with some remorse in his voice. “No one ever waits until morning. The fact that she came down here is proof enough of that. Besides, what good would that have really done her? Her car is useless. We have no phones here. There was no phone when this place went up and there won’t never be a phone here. You know that.”

“Okay, everyone, stop!” Melinda shouted. “That’s enough! Now, you can’t keep me prisoner here and I have no intention of staying any longer. Only that knife-wielding maniac out there is keeping me from running up the road this minute! Now, I need to know what’s really going on here and I need to know it now!”

“We’ve been telling you,” Calvin said. “Granny may not want you to know everything, but you need to. Because you won’t be leaving. Oh, we’re not trying to keep you prisoner. I don’t even care if you run out that door right now. But you’ll never leave this house again afterward.”

“Like hell I won’t!” yelled Melinda.

“Listen, child!” said Granny, rising from her spot at the table. “Listen, please! None of us mean you harm, my dear, not even Mr. Norris. There’s scant he can do anymore, and he knows it. That’s why he’s up there crying all the time. But we’re stuck here, all of us. I hoped there was a chance for you to run for it in the morning, but Calvin’s right. There’s no guarantee you’d be safe in the morning, anyhow.”

“What…the…hell…is wrong with this place!?” choked out Melinda.

She was beginning to break down. she could feel the tears welling in her eyes.

“It was about a month after Mr. Royce died,” said Calvin. “When he came. He was wearing that long, black robe and carrying that ridiculous dagger. I saw him when I was trimming the hedges in the back. I told him he needed to get out of here, because I didn’t like his look. He…he moved so fast I never saw it coming. And he got me, from here…” Calvin touched his neck. “…to here.” He touched his lower abdomen on the opposite side from the neck slash. He began to undo his shirt. Melinda almost vomited. Under his shirt was a long, ugly slash that went deep…and was still seeping blood. She could see bone, muscle and intestines wriggling within that mangled ruin. “I died that night,” said Calvin.

“But then I didn’t. The next thing I knew, I was being dragged into the house by Granny, and when I woke up, I nearly scared her to death. She was sure that I was gone. The thing is, I was. But I was awake. I could talk, walk, do anything I could while alive. Well, except take any enjoyment or nourishment from food or drink anymore. I still drink that tea because it keeps my skin from turning ash-grey. I learned that about fifty years ago.”

He didn’t go away, though,” Granny broke in. “I went out to deal with him, carrying my axe. He took my axe and buried it in my back. I won’t show you the wound, honey. Calvin shouldn’t have shown you his, either. No one should have to see it.”

“But that’s how he works, Melinda,” continued Calvin. “He’s got that knife, but if you try to use a weapon on him, he just…moves like he does and takes it from you. You never stand a chance. He’ll use whatever weapon you try to take him down with to end you. Mr. Norris learned that the hard way.”

“This…this is not happening!” Melinda was ready to break down. She had to hold it together. She had to get out of here, somehow. Nothing about this was right. Nothing about it could be real.

It was all a dream; too much didn’t make sense. Her father calling her out of the blue. Her leaving to go to him without a second thought. Getting lost so quickly, and so irreversibly. No cell phone service anywhere on this road. This place, everything about it! She was dreaming; that had to be it. But if so, she was going to survive this dream. She turned and ran for the stairs. Her purse was still in her room, but she was going to grab it and go. She’d had enough.

Protesting voices began babbling behind her; she cared not one whit. Mr. Norris was waiting at the top of the stairs. Contrary to Granny Royce’s description of him, he was not old at all. No more than about forty.

But she saw instantly what she meant by “not all there”. The top half of Mr. Norris’s head looked normal, like a reasonably attractive man with dark hair peppered with grey here and there. His eyes, a clear green, were moist with fresh tears. The lower half of his face was a ruin of bone fragments, shredded muscle and blood. So much blood. His left side was similarly destroyed. His arm hung on a few hanging strings of muscle, his hip was just as much a mess of bone and blood as his face was. He kept his one good hand on the bannister as he shuffled toward her. Behind him stood a young woman in a bra and a pair of panties. Her stomach was cut open, and looking out of the wound with bright, intelligent eyes was the mangled remains of a baby.

Melinda turned and bolted for the front door. Her hand had just closed around the knob when Calvin rushed up to her, placing his freezing cold hand over hers.

“They’re not going to hurt you,” he said quickly. “But he will. If you step out for so much as a moment, he will kill you, and it will hurt. And it will go on hurting. Forever. After a while you learn to function with the pain, but it never goes away.”

Sobbing, she asked the question she’d been afraid to ask since coming here.

“Who is he?”

“We don’t know,” said Granny, from behind Calvin. “He just…came here, and he won’t go away. He likes to watch us, and do things to incite us to come out again. As soon as someone does, he hurts them more. But no matter how many times he kills us, we don’t die. Believe me when I say, we all wish we could.”

Melinda had had enough of this. She pushed Calvin away and threw open the door. He was standing on the porch. The knife was held out in front of him, just at face-level. Melinda ran into him at a rush, the knife puncturing her right eye and its tip sliding on through, out the other side. She just managed to see the grinning, pure-white face of her killer, before everything went black.

A few hours later, the house erupted with screams from upstairs as Melinda awoke to a world of pain, the like of which she’d never known.

Gravediggers | A Halloween Creepypasta

Original Story

Music by Myuu

It was a cold autumn night. A dense fog had rolled across London, it was impossible to see anything more than five feet ahead of you. The mist reduced people to vague, ghostly figures, or disembodied voices.

In short, it was the perfect Halloween night.

Fifteen year old Michael Blake shivered as he walked through the fog with his best friend, John. On John’s insistence, he’d managed to give his parents the slip so that they could perform that time — honored Halloween ritual — to walk through a deserted cemetery in the middle of the night. Conveniently, there was a supposedly haunted neighborhood cemetery nearby.

Trust John to come up with an idea like this, thought Michael. But he wasn’t going to complain. One of John’s ideas had once saved his life. Somehow, John always seemed to know the right thing to do, even if it seemed absurd at the time.

And then, out of the fog, the cemetery gates suddenly appeared before them — old and disused. The iron had rusted to brown so that they looked like twisted pieces of wood that had been bound together. In fact the entire cemetery was in disrepair; the authorities weren’t bothered about it and the relatives of the people in the cemetery didn’t complain.

The cemetery is abandoned and unloved, thought Michael, perhaps just like the souls of its residents. Then he chided himself. Why did he let such weird thoughts enter his head?

John kicked the cemetery gates, which swung open with a loud groan of protest. Michael looked around nervously, but nobody seemed to have heard them.

As they entered the cemetery, John suddenly stopped.

“I almost forgot,” he said casually. “We’ll have to watch out for gravediggers.”

“Gravediggers?”

“The poorest of London’s poor. They’re usually homeless and jobless. They go about stealing from the dead. They rob graves of glasses, watches, even the clothes worn by the corpse, if they’re desperate. And most of them are armed with knives.”

Nice of him to tell me now. Michael shivered. But once again, he didn’t complain, and followed John into the cemetery.

This is so cliché, Michael thought to himself. Two friends performing a Halloween dare get a lot more than they bargained for. He could see the phrase on the back cover of a dozen cheesy horror flicks.

John kicked aside a pebble. It skittered and came to a stop in front of an old tombstone. Despite the fog, Michael could make out the words inscribed on it- Here Lies FRANK JONES
Died as he lived- in the pursuit of justice

He must have been a policeman, thought Michael. It was a strangely comforting notion.

They continued onward through the cemetery. Michael had to admit, it made him irrationally nervous, even though he had thought that he had long since ceased to be afraid of ghosts. But the cemetery itself scared him. Unlike in a typical cemetery, there were trees planted at seemingly random spots, casting long shadows in the foggy moonlight. Birds squawked and chattered in the trees. The idea behind the planting of the trees was that the remains of the dead would give rise to new life. However, the trees had never been trimmed, and at this time of night, they only heightened the uneasiness one would naturally feel in a cemetery. They made the entire place look wild and overgrown. Michael imagined those branches reaching out to grab him…

He shivered and trudged forward, trying to keep up with John, who had gone totally silent. John went through these moods- he would be happy one moment, surly in the next. Right now he was making Michael feel nervous.

Don’t be stupid, he said to himself. It was the cemetery creeping him out, not John. He had no need to be afraid of John, or to be distrustful of him.

In front of him, John suddenly stopped, and pointed to a spot a few feet in front of him. The fog parted and Michael saw a crouching figure. He seemed to be digging into the ground.

A gravedigger, thought Michael. What had John said? Most of them were armed with knives. They were homeless, desperate. What if this man tried to steal from them, or kill them? He tried to pull John back. But John pushed him away.

“Who’s that?” he said loudly, and boldly walked forward. Michael hesitated, then followed.

As they walked up to him, the gravedigger gave a sudden start. He rose up and drew out a knife.

“Didn’t see you there, laddie. You shouldn’t be out here alone at night, a nice lad like you.”

He slowly moved towards Michael, making slow circular motions in the air with his knife.

Michael’s eyes were fixed on the blade- a few inches of metal that could mean his death. He was rooted to the spot with fear.

But as the gravedigger reached him, he crumpled, falling towards Michael. Michael grabbed him to stop his fall, and the gravedigger leaned on Michael like a dead weight. He could see the man’s strangely blank eyes, smell his rotten breath. Then, he pushed the gravedigger away, and he collapsed and lay there as if dead.

In front of Michael stood a policeman. Clearly, it was he who had knocked out the gravedigger. Michael sighed with relief, then gasped when he clearly saw the policeman.

His face was a pale milky white, with a crooked nose and two deep-set eyes that were pitch-black in color. Somehow, it did not look entirely human. The policeman looked unnaturally thin. Corpse-like was the phrase that came to mind.

“That was a close one wasn’t it?”

Michael just nodded.

The policeman moved forward to stand right in front of Michael and frowned down on him.

Michael saw his name tag, and gasped again.

The tag read ‘F. Jones’.

“What exactly are you doing out here?” asked Jones.

Michael stood speechless, staring at him. His heart was thundering- it seemed about to burst out of his chest. It seemed impossible, but it looked as though he had been saved from the gravedigger by the ghost of Frank Jones.

Michael turned to John, his throat dry.

John had gone completely white.

“You explain,” he said to Michael, then turned and fled into the fog.

I should have expected that, thought Michael, staring after John.

Officer Jones followed Michael’s gaze into the fog. But John was no longer visible. It was as if the fog had swallowed him up.

Jones frowned, then turned back to Michael.

“Well, boy? I’m waiting for an answer,” said Jones. He was speaking softly, almost whispering. “What are you doing here? Only gravediggers come here at this time of night. This place is one of their frequent haunts.”

Haunts. Funny choice of words.

Michael trembled. He was about to start speaking, but Jones interrupted.

“Unless…unless you’re a gravedigger.” Jones smiled. His teeth were yellow and rotten. Decaying. Now Michael was sure. Officer Jones was a ghost.

“You’ll have to come with me,” Jones continued. “Oh yes.”

He smiled again, and licked his grey, cracked lips with his grey tongue.

Michael was terrified. Jones thought he was a gravedigger. And what did he mean by “You’ll have to come with me?”

“I… I’m not going anywhere with you!” Michael screamed. “This is a mistake! I’m not a gravedigger!”

But it was useless to argue. Michael could see that Jones did not believe him. An evil fire had lit in his eyes.

“Save your protests for later, boy. You’re coming with me, where you belong!”

And Jones reached for his belt. Michael saw his hand close around his gun. Jones was going to kill him!

And so, without pausing to think, Michael acted.

He pushed his legs forward, falling as if he had slipped over something. Jones was right in front of him and Michael’s legs crashed into Jones’ feet. It was the last thing Jones had expected. He fell right on top of Michael, and as he did so, Michael punched him where it hurt most. Jones howled with pain, and Michael pulled Jones’ gun out of its holster.

I have to move quickly, thought Michael. Before Jones could react, Michael pushed him away, pointed the gun at his face and pulled the trigger. Blood spurted from Jones’ head and into Michael’s eyes, but he didn’t care. He was alive! He’d done it. For once, he’d saved his life without John’s help. He laid on the ground, laughing with relief.

Then he heard footsteps behind him. He got up, but before he could turn around, he’d been expertly cuffed and twisted around. It was another policeman. He stood staring at Michael, his face white. Then, without a word, he walked Michael to a nearby police station. He was taken to a holding cell. For what seemed like hours, he was left alone. Then the policeman who had arrested him walked in.

“What did you do?!”

And Michael told him everything — about the Halloween dare, Frank Jones’ grave, the gravedigger, and the ghost.

The policeman stared silently at him. Then he pressed a buzzer and Michael’s parents walked in. They looked pale, shocked. It seemed they had heard everything.

“Michael, how could you do this?” his mother asked in between sobs.

“I had to protect myself.”

“Why did you leave the house without telling us?” his father screamed.

Michael looked at him sadly. He had reacted similarly- last time.

“It was John’s idea,” Michael said.

“Did… did you say John?” his mother asked. She seemed to have gone even paler.

“Yeah, Mom. He told me to walk through the cemetery with him. He told me about the gravediggers.”

“No Michael!” his father said, clutching at his hair. “I told you about the gravediggers a week ago!”

He left the room with Michael’s mother and the policeman. Michael could hear parts of their angry conversation outside.

“…let him leave the house!” the policeman was saying.

Michael strained to hear his parents’ reply.

“…stabilised…they let us … for a few days… we never dreamed…”

“You should have,” the policeman snapped. “I lost a good friend today.”

And then all was silent for a few hours.

The policeman entered the room again. He grabbed Michael and took him out of the station and into a car. They drove him to the last place he wanted to be. His home for the last few years, until a few days ago.

They took Michael to a cell- his cell, deep within the facility.

They tried, once again, to feed him their lies. They told him that Frank Jones had been a criminal lawyer who had a heart attack while cross-examining a murderer.

They told him the policeman’s name had been Francis Jones. He had been a young, enthusiastic officer. When he confronted Michael, he had been reaching for his cuffs, not his gun.

And Michael had killed him.

Of course, Michael didn’t believe them. Six years ago, they had also lied to him. They told him that John, his best friend, was imaginary! It was a lie! John was real, but he was a ghost. Only Michael could see ghosts. That was why he had been able to see the ghost of Frank Jones tonight.

Six years ago, John had saved Michael’s life by warning him that his teenage cousin, David, was planning to kill Michael and his parents. Michael remembered the feeling of intense relief he’d experienced when he wrapped his hands around David’s neck and squeezed the life out of him- the same relief he’d felt when he shot Jones.

And they had arrested Michael for killing David, when he had actually saved his family! And now he was back in this hellhole for ‘killing’ Jones. Damn them all!

But Michael knew the truth. The policeman he had shot was the ghost of Frank Jones. Of course, shooting a ghost wasn’t a crime! And John… John was not imaginary. Michael knew that John would help him escape this place…someday…

And Michael laughed and laughed, his laughter mingling with that of some of the other souls condemned to spend their lives at London’s maximum security prison for the criminally insane.


Inspired by Anthony Horowitz’s THE HITCHHIKER

313 West Main Street | A Creepypasta

My first recollection of things being amiss was within the first week of our relocation to the house, in late March to early April 2001. My parents had left for the store to purchase cleaning products (the house was disgusting when we moved in) and I decided to stay behind and explore my new home. It was the largest house I had ever lived in at that point, and the only house I’ve ever lived in to feature a full attic and basement.

Being a meek 12 year old girl, I couldn’t reach the pull cord for the attic, so I turned my explorations to the basement. The finished portion of the basement was musty, if unremarkable. Behind a clear shower curtain lay the unfinished portion. Chiefly, it was a boiler room. However, on the eastern wall, there was a small area boarded up with plywood. I wrapped upon the wood and found that it was hollow behind it.

I didn’t know when to expect my parents home, and I figured that I’d need time and preparation to explore the area behind the wood. When I made my way back up the stairs to the door connecting my bedroom to the basement, I found that the door had been locked from the outside. Do note, the locks on the door were comprised of two deadbolts and one latch. After fidgeting with the door for a few moments, I resolved to simply exit through the basement door leading outside and wait for my parents to return home. I believed, at the time, that they had locked me in the basement as a practical joke. As time wore on, I wasn’t so sure.

The following weekend, I decided to wake up long before anyone else—at roughly 5:00 a. m. to explore the basement. I dressed in thick, warm clothing, boots, a hat, and a pair of heavy duty masonry gloves. The plywood was in an advanced state of dry rot, so I was able to pull it free of its moorings with relative ease. I carefully sat it aside, as to make as little noise as possible, and took out my headlamp.

Looking into the void, I saw that the “tunnel” extended quite a ways—in fact, it extended beyond the point of the house itself. I tied a handkerchief around my nose and mouth to prevent breathing as much dust as possible and began my journey. Most of the crawl was uneventful, and, as such, I returned to the start of the “tunnel” after a few hours. The tunnel was much longer than I had anticipated and I would need a lot more time to traverse it fully. As I had neglected to bring a time-piece of any kind, I had no indication of how much time had passed.

When summer break began, I conducted daily sojourns into the dreaded “Dirty Part”, as I had dubbed it. Over time, I found various things buried under the dirt. They would vary from clothing to children’s toys. I thought little of it—the house was old and had had many inhabitants prior to us—I figured that perhaps a previous tenet had stored boxes in there, the boxes had disintegrated, and the clothing and toys had simply become buried.

However, the more things I found, the more frequent there would be “happenings”. At first, they were minor things: my stereo turning itself off and on, my VCR recording random things while I slept, alarms going off, etc. I attributed this to interference from the nearby police-call station and left it at that. My father would soon join me in my explorations of the new house—but his attention was drawn to the attic.

In the living room, directly under the attic, there was a curious stain in the shape of a human pelvis and legs. The odd shape intrigued us both greatly, so we decided that the two of us would explore the attic in hopes of finding its source.

No sooner had we entered the attic, the kitchen stove’s timer “went off”, and the two of us gave up on our adventure in the attic. Worth noting is that the stove’s timer did not work and did not go off again. After that, my father decided that he would not be joining in any further explorations of our domicile.

When I returned to school, I was in seventh grade—a “Middle Schooler” at that point, and became more interested in hanging out with my friends instead of exploring a musty basement (though the basement—the finished potion, at least, had become the “hang out” of my friends and I–primarily because there was a refrigerator and half-bathroom down there, as well as a cable connection). Things were quiet for a time, and I thought no more of the previous goings-on.

It was not until I was 14 that I began to notice a sudden increase in odd things. My father and I started seeing small animals; solid black and the size and shape of guinea pigs, wander the hallway. Every day, at roughly the same time, my parents’ bedroom door would slowly open, then, just as slowly, close; the door knob turning each time. This piqued my interest, and I decided to resume my explorations.

Now, two years older, I once again braved the tunnel. I wore old clothing, a surgical mask, thick gloves, and a headlamp and braved the long dark. I crawled for what felt like miles on my hands and knees until I caught a strange shimmer in the dark. Curious, I made my way towards it. When I reached the object of my determination, I found that it was a bleach-white human skull. With a little digging, I was able to pull it from the dirt that surrounded it.

Examining it, I found that the mandible was missing, and most of the maxilla had been broken. The remaining teeth were clean—free of cavities, that is, and lacked the smoothness that the teeth of an older person might have. I figured that the skull belonged to someone who was rather young. Turning the skull over in my hands, I found a one-inch diameter hole in the right occiput, near to the right temporal. In my fear, I dropped the skull and fled as quickly as I could—back to the safety and light of my house proper. I never spoke a word to my parents of my macabre discovery.

Shortly after this discovery, I started noticing more bestial entities—primarily a solid black dog, roughly the size of a Doberman Pincher. At first, it was only out of the corner of my eye. When I would turn to look, it would vanish. I tried to ignore it, but eventually, it became so brazen as to stand plain before me, staring. When I would approach it, it would flee and vanish if I gave chase.

My new canine friend wasn’t the only disturbance, once again, my stereo would turn itself on and off, switch randomly between radio stations, and play random tracks from random loaded CDs (it was a 3-disk changer). My VCR would, again, record various things—some of them completely unidentifiable, and would fail to record what I had programmed it to record (much to my dismay). I stopped using my stereo, and began using my “jam box”—a small CD player, tape deck, and radio combination. All was well with it, and my VCR seemed to “calm down”, that is, until the night that I dubbed “The Night that All Hell Broke Loose”.

I had finished listening to a Dave Matthew’s Band album, and was going off to sleep, when I noticed that the “jam box” wouldn’t turn off. I thought that perhaps it was just a malfunction, and went to unplug it. Still, music played. I opened the back to check if there were batteries and found the battery compartment bereft of batteries.

Thoroughly rattled, I opened the basement door and threw the “jam box” down the stairs into the darkness, then quickly slammed the door shut, fastened all locks, and jammed a chair under the door handle. At that point, I refused to even go into the basement—even for a moment. I mistakenly believed that if I ignored the happenings and “steered clear” of the basement, that things would “quiet down”. However, I was sorely mistaken.

Summer break was drawing a close, and for the new school year, I wanted to “go back in style” so my mother bought me new clothes, took me to the salon to get my hair done, and bought me a watch I had been wanting. I was rather proud of my new watch—square face, black leather band with silver studs and a silver buckle. I rarely took it off.

One evening, as I lay on my bed, I glanced at my prize and found that the watch was running backwards. Horrified, I tore the timepiece from my wrist and threw, it too, into the accursed basement. I had had just about enough of these events. I decided that I was going to ignore it—pretend like it wasn’t there—completely fail to acknowledge its existence.

As one could imagine, this plan did not work. I started noticing that, at exactly three a.m., there would come heavy, plodding stomps up the basement stairs that would always stop just short of the adjoining door. Still, I decided to continue my campaign. Evidently, this only served to frustrate the entity.

It would continue like this for many more months: 3 o’clock a.m–STOMP, STOMP, STOMP, STOMP, then silence. Since it was still summer break, my mother promised me that if I were to clean my room, then my best friend could stay the night. Excited, I complied and stayed up far past my “bed time” cleaning.

So engrossed in my endeavor was I, that I hadn’t noticed the time. As I was cleaning the “Vanity” (which was connected to the adjoining door), the stomps started. I sat, stock still, my back braced against the door. The room fell silent, then, just as I was beginning to feel safe, there came a hard bashing against the door—hard enough to break one of the two dead-bolts, one hinge, and the latch.

It would continue on like that for the months until the disturbances reached their zenith. As I lay one night, staring at the ceiling, I noticed a strange pressure on my bed. I figured that perhaps a cat had found its way into my room, and shrugged it off. Then, before I could react, I was restrained. My entire body was paralyzed, I could not see, hear, speak, or breathe. Panic took over me, and, with no small effort on my part, I managed to gurgle out: “Jesus, please help me…” and the darkness released me. Fortunately, we moved shortly after that.

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

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.

“What?”

“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