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

The Deal | A Halloween Creepypasta

 

The Deal

Music by Myuu

It’s amazing, really. Halloween, that is, just the idea of it. Humans, we’re intelligent creatures for the most part, but during this certain time of the year we seem to lose said intelligence; we crave the need to be scared, spooked, and terrified. I, myself, used to be one of these people, until that Halloween three years ago.

Now growing up, I searched for anything and everything that would scare me. The feeling of being scared intrigued me, that rush of blood from your heart to your head, the sound of blood pounding in my ears.

My family seemed to travel a lot now that I think back on it. One town to the other, state to state. I still don’t know why we did, we weren’t militarily involved, my dad wasn’t a traveling salesmen, and he wasn’t a performer. I guess my parents just didn’t like to be in one place for too long, they were free spirits, or so I thought.

Halloween was a weird time for us, my father was just like me. He loved being terrified, even more than me, he even tried being a Daredevil for a short amount of time. My mom, now understand, was one of the happiest people I have ever come to know, she was so nice and gentle. But, for one night out of the year, she changed to this pale, ghostly image of a woman, drained of all color and life. She always looked scared, constantly looking over her shoulder, like something was following her. God I miss her.

It feels like an eternity since that fateful night. It started out like most Halloweens, my dad informing me of all the haunted houses we would be visiting, and my mother was her usual pale self.

As the day progressed though, my mom began to look increasingly worse, like the life was sucking out of her. Her cheek bones were sunken in like that of a holocaust victim, as if her skeleton was trying to rip free of the skin that held it. I just shrugged it off, as usual. That was my first mistake.

As my dad and I stepped into the cool autumn air, I felt the wind bite into my cheeks and turn them red. As we walked to the car I saw my dad fall to his knees; I quickly ran to his side. His face was that of my mother’s, pale and boney; he was grasping at his chest, and looking around, swiveling his head violently.

I asked him if he was okay. This seemed to snap him back to normal, he hastily replied that he was okay and we needed to get going so we didn’t have to wait in a long line. Too bad we never made it to that damned haunted house.

As we drove the color in my dad’s face returned, but he still looked scared. I asked what had happened, he just replied that he had heartburn. I, again being my carefree self, shrugged it off. As we turned off the main highway onto a side road, that I suppose was meant to take us to the haunted house, I felt a sudden chill creep over me.

We hadn’t been on the road for five minutes before I saw headlights, it was an 18-wheeler for some local supermarket whose name is lost to me. Now at this point a lot of things happened at once; something or someone ran out in front of the truck, the truck swerved into our lane, my dad swerved, but we clipped the truck and went spiraling into the woods that surrounded the road.

Pain. That’s all that came to mind after these events happened, and the loud rumble of an explosion, from what I suppose was the truck that almost killed us. My leg was caught under the caved-in dashboard. I was able to squeeze it out but this only intensified the pain.

I assumed I had a broken leg, or at the very least a major fracture. I observed my surroundings. The car was slammed up against a tree, the front end was basically non-existent. There was smoke cascading up in the distance, with the faint glow of what most likely was the truck on fire. In the midst of this silent chaos, my dad was nowhere to be seen.

As I dragged myself out of the car, I noticed something. I couldn’t see the road, it wasn’t there. I mean it was as if the road had never even existed in the first place. I don’t even remember how I reasoned it out in my head, but again like I did everything, I shrugged it off.

As I hobbled over to my dad’s side, I saw that the door was ripped off and thrown at least fifteen yards to the side of the car. There was a clear path though, outlined in the weeds by blood and ripped pieces of clothing. Had someone dragged my dad to safety? I remember thinking this; it was the only logical thing, unless he dragged himself, but why would he do that?

I followed the trail for what seemed like forever, almost losing it a few times, like he tried to walk at some point, but gave up. After what felt like forever, the woods gave way to an opening. There before me lay a cemetery, but, there was something different about this cemetery that was different from any I had ever seen. I felt a rumbling underneath my feet like the dead were resisting the holds of their earthly prison, the tombstones had no names, but were wrapped in chains.

Standing in the middle was a figure, it was dressed in black, beside him lay my father.

I called out to it then, it turned its head towards me. What I saw I cannot describe, because its appearance did not stay the same for long, one minute it was a skeleton. Next, it was my friends, then my relatives, then a snarling beast whose name I know not. Then he spoke, his voice was hollow yet commanding, it gave me a feeling that I can only describe as hopelessness.

He told me that my parents had committed great crimes. When I asked him what my father had done, he said that he had made a deal, that helped him cheat death, and that he had been running from it since then.

I stood there, still pondering on whether or not this was a dream. I heard an anguished cry gurgle up from my father. Silence. My father was nowhere to be seen, the dark figure sank into the ground, and with him went my sanity and consciousness. Darkness overtook me.

I awoke on the sidewalk next to my house. My mother was gone, the house was cleared out and nobody even remembers me or my parents.

Now here I am in this hospital with the only person in the world I love, my darling wife, Rose. Please take heed of my story, and know you cannot cheat death.

“There honey, it’s done,” I said to Rose soothingly.

“Thank you, baby.”

Knock, knock.

That must be the doctor; I walked over to the door and there stood the doctor in his freshly cleaned bone white jacket, looking very similar to a ghost.

“Tom, I know times have been tough for you and Rose, and over these past years I feel like we’ve all become good friends, so it kills me to tell you… It seems the cancer is terminal.”

That word, terminal, it echoed throughout my mind, it resonated through it like the sound of glass shattering.

“I understand,” I said back.

“I understand this is hard, I’ll give you two a bit to discuss.”

I turned back into the room, and started to walk to her bed, when I heard another knock. I backtracked to the door, and opened it. I saw a man of average height, gray pin-striped suit and a black fedora, his eyes were icy blue and chilled me to the bone. He looked me in the eyes with a piercing stare and said:

“Wanna make a deal?”

Mr. Messy Bits | A Halloween Creepypasta

Mr. Messy Bits by Credited to ScutigeraColeoptrata

Music by Myuu

My life took an unusual turn recently.

Until about two weeks ago, I was a successful lawyer, working as a legal advisor for a high profile software company. My life was orderly, lucrative, and quite dull. But all that changed one magical night, when I had a vivid dream of something glowing consuming my entire body. When I awoke I immediately knew something was odd. I remember running to the bathroom mirror to discover pieces of my body falling off, to reveal a strange and twitching form underneath, alien and ‘shifting’.

I was of course quite frightened at first. I gave out a loud yell and the remainder of my human body exploded messily all over the bathroom, revealing my new form underneath. It was, and still is, hard to describe, because so much of it is ‘shifting’.

There were great red eyes blinking and gazing, appendages like huge spider legs twitching and grasping the air, long tough hair that seemed to fold in and out of my human form, Massive maw-like folds over ashen-black ‘skin’, and a whole host of strange and otherworldy organs too bizarre for me to put to words. I panicked and ran through my apartment, my screams coming out as sickening gurgles from bubbling pores in my vaguely humanoid body. I soon fainted from the shock.

When I awoke I was again covered in my human body, regenerated over my alien form. Why my new body had done this I still cannot say, but it gave me much to think about as I was cleaning up the mess I had made of my apartment. I couldn’t go to the authorities, as I would surely be locked up and studied. So, as long as I was still myself, I decided to keep it a secret.

And then the next day I went shopping. Yes, you guessed it. All over everything.

There was a panic in the grocery store as my exploded human bits were sprayed over a large area, and my alien form was revealed to the public. I ran away quickly in the confusion. I learned from this experience that my body needed to ‘detonate’ at fairly regular intervals, and that I could predict when and where this would happen, so long as I did not put it off.

At first I confined my daily detonations to my own bathroom, maintaining my work and social life. But as this proved to be messy and time consuming, I began to have rather depraved, almost exhibitionist desires. To tell you the truth, I had started to rather enjoy the detonations, and I enjoyed still more the look of terror on the faces of those nearby when one of their own suddenly exploded into a monster. The thought of doing it regularly in public made me positively giddy.

So I started my reign of terror. I ‘buzzed’ weddings, funerals, public gatherings of all sorts, doctor waiting rooms (“there’s something wrong with me, AAAAH!”), schools, government buildings, even my place of work. While I had at first had some vague idea of keeping my old life, I soon learned to abandon my human way of living completely. My new body didn’t seem to need to eat, and I only rarely required sleep. I spent my down time in abandoned buildings or out in the woods. It was during a rest in the latter that I met Roger.

It was October 30th when I first met Roger in the forest outside of town. He was a young boy, about 10 to 12 years of age by my reckoning. He must have been running away from something truly terrible, as he didn’t seem fazed by my unnatural and writhing true form. I remember asking him why he wasn’t afraid, and he said I was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

I explained to the best of my ability what had happened to me, and he said he envied my lifestyle. He asked if he could join me on my next outing, and since I didn’t see the harm in it at the time, I agreed.

On Halloween night, Roger selected a seemingly random slum neighborhood, and I went to work presenting myself as a respectable representative of some human organization. I wore a smart black suit I had picked up one day during a ‘buzz’ at a clothing store.

I had gathered together most of the people in the neighborhood, and was about to detonate, when Roger suddenly fell to the ground, motionless. I detonated, causing a panic, and all of the adults ran away in the ensuing confusion. It was up to me to deliver Roger to a hospital where he could get proper treatment, but there wasn’t time for me to regenerate my human body. I would have to go as the monster.

To make matters much worse, I had become quite infamous in my former community. Someone spotted me carrying a small boy through the streets, and alerted the authorities. When I arrived at the hospital, police and military personal had the area surrounded. I did not know how my new body would hold up to bullets, but I was not eager to find out. I tried to speak, but could only gurgle in my natural form. When the man in charge gave the order to fire, I ducked into the hospital for cover.

Fortunately for me, none of the men present were brave enough to come in after me, and so fired off randomly into the lobby while I hid from sight. After a few minutes of this, the gunfire stopped. As I sat there, motionless with Roger in my arms, I noticed that all the shooting had hit something flammable, starting a fire that was spreading rapidly. The men outside must have seen it, as there was a great deal of shouting. Knowing that the smoke would surely kill Roger, I decided to brave the wrath of my enemies.

I boldly strode outside, my human body again starting to form across my alien hide. I walked up to the man in charge and gently handed Roger to him. He was noticeably stunned, and offered no audible protest. Just as quickly, I re-entered the hospital. The fire was spreading very quickly now, and could not be extinguished by any device present. I imagined the fire department was on its way, but by the time they arrived it would surely be too late for the other patients. There was only one thing I could do.

I breathed in deeply, and then proceeded to give the longest detonation I have ever done. Blood, mucous and other bodily fluids rained over a large area. Bits of my alien body also flew off in a great rain of carnage. The act left me tired and drained, but it worked; the flame was extinguished before it could grow any larger, the lobby of the hospital now covered in wet gore.

Tired as I was, I knew it wasn’t a good idea for me to hang around. I quickly ran out the back and into a nearby alley. The police and the military had their hands full with rescuing the hospital residents, so I had enough time to escape.

The next day I read the newspaper. The headline read, “Mr. Messy Bits Saves Small Boy and Hospital with Fountain of Gore.” To my amazement, the story gave a favourable review of my actions the night before. The writer said that the local monster that had been terrorizing their community had acted selflessly to save those threatened by the fire, and that it seems that said creature did not mean to cause harm. I would never have believed that I could have received such praise, but it made me rethink who I was and what purpose my life would have.

Mr. Messy Bits, eh?

To my relief, Roger made a full recovery. He met up with me again as soon as he was well enough, and the two of us set out together as partners in crime.

And that’s why it was the best Halloween ever…

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 5 | The Fun House | A Creepypasta

The dusk air was clogged with the scents of deep fried food, the air clouded with the exclamations of hundreds of happy carnival goers as they sped through rides with reckless abandon. It was the perfect evening, The joyous atmosphere filling the hearts and minds of everyone there with enough fun to last until their next adventure. I couldn’t help but smile my brightest, widest grin.

It was the season of carnivals, fairs and outdoor festivals. The sweet smell of cotton candy washed over the land like a flash flood. The bright emerald of my eyes swept over the masses, spying large over stuffed animals bobbing through the crowd as children and adults alike totted their prizes through the fair grounds. Everyone here, tonight, was a child at heart. Including myself.

Spying one of my favorite carnival treats, the fun house, I giddily trotted over towards the old converted trailer in search of those infamous mirrors and cheap pranks. My friends had all gone in search of their favorite greasy fair delicacies, leaving me to my own devices. While I disliked going on most of the rides by my lonesome, I could more then handle the various mysteries inside the funhouse. After all, they were mostly geared to scare children. Most of them I had seen a million times, and at most, provided me a chuckle or two. Once in a while something would jump out and startle me, but even then the prank was met with laughter. It was a fun house after all!

I dug a few tickets from my pocket, taking inventory as I read the sign outside the old trailer. A young Hispanic man stood by the door, his smile only broke by a sip from his fresh ice cold lemonade he held in his right hand. As people entered, he would smile and nod, placing their tickets in his pocket. It was five tickets to enter, I had exactly seven. What a fine way to end my magical night at the fair!

Passing the little light blue squares of paper off to the vendor, I merrily stepped up the stairs and into the dark interior of the large refurbished trailer. I had to blink a few times to adjust my eyes to the light. Pausing for just a moment, I pulled the length of my long red hair back over my shoulders and secured it with the purple hair tie from my left wrist. I was ready to have some fun, all by my lonesome.

As I began down the tiny dark corridor, I could hear the echos of the people who entered before me chuckling and squealing. I heard a couple up ahead, the woman giggling like a school girl after her boyfriend (Or male counterpart I should say instead of making assumptions) let out a frightened cry. I quietly uttered a chuckle. Men usually seemed to be the biggest chickens when it comes to these types of thrills!

As I rounded the first dark corner, I was met with my first scare. An old prop of a hanging man flew out from the way, it’s limbs flailing about limply from the sudden jolt that had forced it from its place in the wall. I jumped, my body flooded with an anxious tingling that seemed to dissipate out through my fingers and toes. I chuckled, pushing the dummy aside as I headed further into the fun house. There was something odd, as my fingers had pushed against the prop, it had felt slightly warm and gooey. Great effects! Perhaps they had actually put some effort into things this year!

After another couple feet, a ghastly glowing sheet came flying across the ceiling accompanied by the familiar ghostly sounds Halloween had made famous. My green sights followed the sheet until it disappeared into a back wall. Without a second thought I made my way further down the hall. Before long I came to another corridor, my face almost meeting the black wall rather abruptly if not for my toes hitting the painted card board. I blinked, squinting for a moment to gather my bearings again. It was easy to get lost in places like this, the black interior and lack of lighting leaving you disorientated and easier to spook.

Before I had time to recover from my encounter with the wall, there was a horrifying shriek, followed by another cheap prop dislodging from the wall. I let out a squeal of surprise, falling back onto the floor as the dummy swung back and forth in front of me. It had several flashing green LED lights scatted around it in odd places. I chuckled as I plucked myself back up off the floor. I gave my butt a rub or two, my cheek’s a little sore from the tumble. It was nothing big, especially not compared to the thrills I was getting this time around!

I started off again, the dummy having the same warm gooey texture as the last. This time, however, my fingers came away wet. I frowned a bit as I wiped them off on my jeans. Probably glue from those little dollar store LED lights. Perhaps the vendor could offer me some wet wipes after wards. It would only be right, since it was their sloppiness that had caused it.

There were several more props that dislodged from the dark walls, their little trap doors squeaking as they popped open to spit out some thrills. Various pained cries, shrieks and halloween sound effects echoed through the halls. I couldn’t hear any more people in the trailer, they must of all made it out already. I was having a blast, my voice bouncing through the darkness with chuckles and squeals. I hadn’t thought twice about the grotesque creativity used in the props, most of the dummies appearing rather lifelike in the dark. To me, they were simply an improvement to the same old funhouse sh-peal. It was nice to see (and feel) some effort being put into this carnival classic.

After about five minutes I came to a door, my hands finding the knob before I even realized what was in front of me. I attempted to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge. Frowning, I furrowed my brow in frustration. Removing my attention from the door, I felt my way around the hallway around me, running my fingers along the black walls. There didn’t seem to be another way through. Maybe it was just jammed!

I leaned my body into the door, my hands furled as tightly as they could around the little handle. I noticed something strange when I pressed up against the door. There was a low mechanical hum coming from behind the door. I paused, pressing my ear to the black entryway as I listened intently for any other sounds. Perhaps it was the generator outside that powered the entire fun house. Shrugging it off, I lofted a little sigh of disappointment as I realized the door was going to budge. I’d take a wrong turn, obviously. Prepared to turn around and shuffle my way back to find the correct path, I slipped in something wet on the floor. Immediately my stomach churned as my mind raced to assumptions. Urgh. Someone had probably thrown up in here, either from fear or intoxication and I’d just stepped in it! Disgust rushed through me, quickly dispelling the happy vibe that had followed me around all evening. What a great way to end the night.

Now focusing more on my surroundings I began to notice a smell. It didn’t reek of vomit, but rather it was a bitter, metallic smell. Oil from the generator? No, it was a little different. More bittersweet. I scrunched my nose before heading back down the corridor. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter I had to be close to the end by now. I had a sudden desire to go find my friends and head back home for the night. My fun had been ruined by someone else’s bad luck. At least I wasn’t the only one who had wandered down the wrong tunnel.

Dragging my fingers along the walls, I searched for another passage. It only took a moment or two before my fingers slid around a corner to my right. I don’t know how I managed to miss it before, but I hurried turned the corner. My face smacked right into another prop as I rounded the corner. I shrieked with the sudden shock, my body instinctively falling back away from whatever it was I had just ran into. As I glanced up towards the source of the thrill, several LED lights flickered on and off behind it, one of those cheap Halloween sound effects blaring in the back ground. What I saw in those few short lived green flashes horrified me. This time I got a good look at the dummy, almost every last inch of its frame covered in what looked like blood. From the chest down into the stomach cavity was torn open, fresh sausage looking guts poured out onto the floor. It hung suspended by its neck from the ceiling. As I sat there on the floor, another bright green flash erupted behind it. It was then that true terror struck me. Terrified eyes rolled down towards me, peering down directly into my own. That was no dummy!

Completely encompassed by the sudden onset of fear, my body went into over drive. As my limbs began to flail beneath me in an attempt to get up, I began to slip on blood that had pooled on the floor. My heart beat feverishly against the walls of my chest, my breathing flying out of control as I began to drown in my own panic. All those dummies… Those props! They were real! I began to whimper as it all began to sink in. Digging my heals down into the floor the best I could, I pushed myself back, crab walking back down the corridor in search of an exit. Loosing track of time, I crawled back frantically through the dark hallway for what seemed like forever until I felt it was safe to turn around. I wanted out of that freakish house of horrors immediately. That was no fun house!

Rolling around onto all fours, I became horribly aware of the racket I was making. How long had I been whimpering? Had someone heard me? Paralyzing fear threatened to break down the door to my subconscious as I crawled on all fours back the way I had come. I needed to get out of here, immediately. Whoever was killing people might still be in there and I didn’t want to meet them!

At long last I saw a brightening of the black heavy duty cardboard walls of the “fun house”. I gasped a sigh of relief, hot tears beginning to pour down my face as I hurried towards the exit. Sunlight became more apparent as I crawled, its weak last rays fighting for its life against the twilight. There was shuffling behind me now in the corridor, and a low scraping sound. I whimpered loudly, my voice jagged with pure horror. I was almost out of this place!

At last I reached the door way from which I had entered. Throwing my hands out the door, I curled my fingers over the door jam to thrust myself forward and on down the stairs. As my body rolled out onto the grass, a loud cry of frustration echoed from inside the trailer. I didn’t waste any time, rolling onto my stomach and pushing myself up onto my feet. Again my emerald eyes rolled along the crowd, their terrified faces gawking at me as I rose to my full height. I didn’t wait, I didn’t stop. Breaking out into tears, I pushed through the crowd, leaving bloody hand prints on t-shirts and bare shoulders. I wanted to get out of there right now.

When I finally found my friends, they all gathered around me in an effort to comfort my trembling frame. By then I was uncontrollably crying, my salty tears leaving streaks in the bright red blood from the fun house. Security had already been called, and it took them very little time to find me. They had stormed the fun house, quickly discovering the grisly remains of eleven people. The culprit had yet to be found, but they were scouring the grounds as they questioned me. I only half listened, the crowd of hundreds of people and their over sized stuffed animals suddenly terrified me. One of them, any one of them, could have been the culprit.

Original Story

Music and sound effects 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