Anyone up for CreepyPasta?

[Sergey]

*Warning* You might not be able to sleep for the next few weeks, but this is a real thread. I'll CopyPasta soon.


A young girl is left home alone with only her dog to protect her. When night approaches, she locks all the doors and tries to lock all the windows but one won't close.

She decides to leave it unlocked and goes to bed. Her dog takes its customary place under her bed.

In the deep of night she awakens to a dripping sound coming from the bathroom. The girl is too scared to go check so she reaches her hand under the bed. She feels a reassuring lick from her dog and falls back to sleep. She reawakens to the dripping sound, reaches her hand down to the dog where she feels the reassuring lick and falls back to sleep. Once more she awakens to the dripping sound. She reaches her hand down and feels the lick of her dog.

Now curious about the dripping sound, she gets up and slowly walks towards the bathroom, the dripping sound getting louder as she approaches. She reaches the bathroom and turns on the light. She is greeted by a horrific sight; hanging from the shower nozzle is her dog with its throat slit open and its blood dripping into the bathtub.

Something on the bathroom mirror catches her eye she turns around. Written on the bathroom mirror in her dog's blood are the words "HUMANS CAN LICK TOO".

[Earl]

Ugh! Wow! My kind of thread.

[Skul]

This is a variation on a story I've heard a few times before when I was younger (in fact, it's got a name: Drip, drip, drip). Only every other time I've heard it, there's always been the mystery of what is licking the girl's hand. It's never revealed and I think that can be more frightening - it could be anything...

[Fat Man]

Hey Sergey!

Are you by any chance a Stephen King fan?

That was a good short story. I've heard one like it before.

[Sergey]

A young man and his new bride were honeymooning in Paris when his wife went into a restroom and didn't return. With time the man began to fear the worst and went to the police. The police thought it was most likely the girl simply had second thoughts about the marriage, but they checked it out anyway and found no evidence of foul play.

As weeks turned into months the man finally gave up on finding his beautiful wife, but his life fell into a shambles, he was so filled with grief.

Unable to hold a job or go on with his life, he took to wandering the world looking for anything that might ease his pain. Years later in Borneo he came upon a freakshow in an old shabby building, he went in on a whim. In the last filthy cage he saw a twisted, scarred and mutilated woman rocking back and forth and groaning strange animal-like noises. He screamed as he recognized the birthmark on his wife's face

[Sergey]

Hey Sergey!

Are you by any chance a Stephen King fan?

That was a good short story. I've heard one like it before.

I like horror and he can make good horror films so yes.

[Sergey]

A man, at about the age of 30 went to a hotel and walked up to the front desk to check-in. The woman at the desk gave him his key and all, and told him that on the way to his room, there was a door with no number that was locked and no one was allowed in there. So he went to his room, and went to bed. The next night he was curious as to what was in the room, so he walked down the hall to where it was and of course tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked. So he bent down and looked through the keyhole. What he saw was a hotel bedroom and in the corner was a woman whose skin was completely white. She was leaning up against a wall and her head was facing the wall. He stared in confusion for a while then went back to his room. The next day, he went back to the room and looked through the keyhole. This time, all he saw was redness. He couldnâ??t make anything out besides a distinct red color, un-moving.

At this point he was confused and a little freaked out. He went to the front desk and asked the lady about the room. She sighed and said, "Did you look through the keyhole?" The man told her that he had and the lady said, "Well, I might as well tell you the story. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in that room, and her ghost haunts it. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which are red."

[Sergey]

A few months ago the lease I shared with my boyfriend â??Seanâ? ran out and we decided to find another place to stay. We had previously been sharing a townhouse with a few other people, and were looking forward to getting a little love nest of our own, made complete with the addition of our new cat. If youâ??re already gagging, take comfort in the fact that everything cute about this story was already summed up above. What remains of this tale recounts the most terrifying and viscerally disturbing and utterly wrong experience Iâ??ve ever had. Iâ??ll take it slow.

The apartment we settled on was one on the edge of town. It had recently been remodeled after being in disuse for a period of time. It smelled like someone had picked it out of a rack at K-Mart and looked like it was hechoâ??d en Mexico. Sean and I reasoned that the cheap remodeling probably accounted for the low rent that matched more dated local complexes.

Since we had a few days left on our lease when our move-in date rolled around, we took our time moving our possessions, and kept sleeping/bathing/eating at the old place. Finally the time came to make the big switch, and we piled all of our big stuff and our kitten into a truck and made the move final.

That night we both had trouble sleeping. It was pretty uncharacteristic for either one of us to feel uncomfortable in the dark, but after a bit of hesitation Sean couldnâ??t help but turn on the lamp beside our bed and comment that he was feeling a little weird. We discussed the bad juju feeling for a bit, and I remember remarking that the place somehow felt naked, as if we werenâ??t really in an apartment at all, but somewhere under the stars, open to the elements. I chalked this up to getting used to the new place. Still, long after Sean fell asleep I stared at the ceiling in the lamp light, hearing creaks and groans in the floor and expecting at any moment to find myself in a nightmare.

The next day I worked during the day and Sean worked the night shift. We didnâ??t get a chance to see each other between our shifts and I felt even more isolated in the apartment once I got home. Our cat, Jazz, made me feel a little better with her excitement and curiosity about our new place. With her around, it felt almost like home. Feeling a bit braver, I decided to shower.

Normally showers are not all that interesting. Most people just think of them as something they lose time to every day. Before that apartment I felt the same way. Didnâ??t ever think about it, just turned the water on scalding and stepped inside. Now just typing the word gives me the creeps.


That night when I took a shower I tried not to think about the uncomfortable feeling that place exuded I tried to focus on some happy thoughts. But I kept hearing things. A distant creak in the living room, a cupboard door closing, and then a strange thump on the floor just in front of the bathroomâ??it was starting to get to me. Soon, I noticed that my skin was covered in goose bumps. Thinking I was letting my imagination get away with me, I called to Jazz, hoping she would reply and raise my spirits.

From the bathroom doorway I heard a â??Meow.â? Something in my intestines lurched, and I felt a shock of adrenaline enter my blood. Was the water muffling Jazz in some strange way? The response from the doorway didnâ??t sound like my cat at all. Trying to control myself, I mewed gently, something Iâ??d taken to doing when Jazz was still a kitten. The reply came again. Again, the sound was something odd. A different timbre. A different tone. A tiny crack in the vocalization. It came again, and it was wrong. All wrong, like something with twenty times the bodily resonation of my cat trying to impersonate her, trying to use her voice to plead for me to come out of the shower and into the open.

And it was closer than before.

I had a barrage of possibilities flooding my mindâ?? the Meower, a meth head who had broken in and was now having a bit of fun before he %%%%d and killed me. The Meower, a crazy creature from out of a â??Spawnâ? comic. I could practically see it, a disgusting huddled mass at the threshold grinning insanely. And I was trapped.

Something inside of me, some hysterical thing from beneath my skin and struggling through my constricted vocal cords made my hand go to the shower curtain. Was it my imagination or my hand on fabric making the shuffling sound just outside of the shower? With a sickening succession of clacks shower curtain rings rushed to one side of the rod and I stood wet and completely vulnerable in the face ofâ?¦

Nothing.

Before you start celebrating, I should point out that by â??Nothing,â? I mean exactly that. To my horror, I realized I had let Jazz outside before my shower. She hadnâ??t been in the apartment at all.

[Sergey]

I gave her the doll on her birthday.
She loved it at first, told me it was so beautiful. That itâ??s hair was so soft and the dress was so pretty. She wouldnâ??t let it out of her sight for days. During the day she set it on the table, so she could see it while cleaning the house. During the night it sat next to the bed, looking at us sleep with big blue unmoving eyes.
But my wifeâ??s love for the doll soon changed. Soon I noticed something was bothering her. I asked of course, but she wouldnâ??t tell me at first, said she was just being silly. But day after day she closed herself more and more for me. Until I couldnâ??t take it anymore. I pressed her, told her she would tell me what was going on right now or I would drag her to a doctor.

She finally broke and crying words came spilling out.
She then told me it was the doll. It scared her. She told me she had the feeling it was constantly watching her. Sometimes it even seemed like it moved.
This worried me and I went to take a look at the doll.
It sat motionless on the little table in the bedroom. The big blue eyes unchanged. I couldnâ??t help but sigh from relief a bit. Of course sheâ??s not moving, she couldnâ??t have been.
I went to turn away, but then saw a tiny movement from the corner of my eye.
I turned back to the doll, picking it up from the table. I held my face close to the dollâ??s, staring into the eyes.
Something was moving.
I tried to concentrate, tried to look closer.
Yes, there it definitely was, movement. But not from the eye itself, it was behind the eye.
Before I could register this the eye burst and out of it spilled at least ten wriggling maggots.
I dropped the doll in shock, backing away instinctively.

My wife yelled from the other room, asking me what was going on. I yelled back at her not to worry. I picked up the doll again, using a tissue to wipe away the maggots. Inside I saw more, pressing against the skin and the plastic outer layer.

So soon already. I had hoped she would have lasted longer.
I will have to get a new one for her, maybe keep it alive at first. That way itâ??ll last longer for sure.
While I throw away the old doll, I think about how my wife always says she loves the thick blond curls of little Katie down the block.
Doesnâ??t she also have blue eyes?

[Earl]

This is a variation on a story I've heard a few times before when I was younger (in fact, it's got a name: Drip, drip, drip). Only every other time I've heard it, there's always been the mystery of what is licking the girl's hand. It's never revealed and I think that can be more frightening - it could be anything...

It could be Samdaman .

[Earl]

Thanks for the horror stories, Sergey. I'm a horror fan too (within limits). I think you'd really enjoy listening to the excellent three-hour BBC radio adaptation of Pet Sematary, which is available on audio cassette or CD. (In my opinion, even though it's just an audio program instead of a movie, it's better than the movie.) You should also check out horror short stories by Robert Block (who created the Norman Bates character) and Richard Matheson, who was one of the major scriptwriters of the original black-and-white Twilight Zone TV series. Stephen King has said that Matheson was a great inspiration for him when he was growing up.

[Sergey]

SOVIET PASTA TIME!

"One night man is riding mule down dirt road. Young woman stands on side of road, calls out for ride home. Is very cold in Soviet winter. Man takes off coat and puts it on back of mule. Girl is also cold. Man gives her sack of turnip for to wear. Girl is much thankful for ride home.

Next morning man realize it is day for buying turnip at market, and girl still has sack. He goes to her house. No girl is there, only father. He says daughter died in salt mines ten years ago night before. Man returns to mule, turnip sack is on back of mule.

SOVIET HONESTY IS STRONG! EVEN DEATH NOT STOP REPAYMENT OF DEBTS!"

[Sergey]

A mother and father decided they needed a break, not having much alone time in the almost a year since their young son, Toby, was born. They wanted to have a night out, dinner, maybe a movie, and the honeymoon suite at a local hotel to possibly give Toby a little brother or sister. They called their most trusted babysitter, who unfortunately was already engaged for the evening. But she did refer a good friend of hers, Opal, who she swore could be trusted. They spoke with the new babysitter and agreed to have her arrive no later than 6:30 so the parents could get an early start.

As the parents got ready to paint the town red, Toby lay on the floor, gnawing on his teething ring in the den off to the back of the house. At shortly after 6:20 the father walked past the open doorway and saw an elderly woman sitting in the rocking chair facing the child, her back to the doorway. The father was slightly startled as his wife hadnâ??t mentioned the sitter had arrived. He spoke to her as he straightened his tie in the mirror on wall opposite the doorway.

â??Oh my, Iâ??m sorry I didnâ??t hear you come in. We appreciate you coming on such short notice. My wife put some a chicken in the oven for you. The numbers for the restaurant and hotel are on the counter if you need to reach us. We will be home around 9 tomorrow morning. Goodbye Toby, I love you.â?

He hurried down the hallway as his wife was coming down the stairs, meeting her at the bottom his wife asked â??What were you saying dearâ?

â??Oh nothing, I was just giving the sitter instructions, now we should hurry so we can make our reservation on time.â? he replied grabbing his coat as he unlocked the front door.

They went to the car and were in such a rush they didnâ??t notice the car pull into the drive way not 15 seconds after they pulled out. They proceeded to have the best night out they could remember. The wife become somewhat concerned shortly after arriving at the hotel when she called home and no one answered. The husband calmed her as he pulled her into bed, kissing her neck.

â??Donâ??;t worry dear, sheâ??s an older lady and itâ??s almost 10, she must have gone to bed after putting Toby down.â?

**************

The next morning after a nice breakfast they arrived home to find a note on the door. It read:
â??I arrived at 6:30 as agreed but no one was home.
If you had made other plans I would have appreciated
if someone had called me.
Opal�

The husband gave his wife a confused look as she put a hand to her mouth and her face turned white. She threw open the front door calling out for her son. There was no reply, in fact there was no sound at all in the house, just the smell or some burned meat. She ran up the stairs as her husband raced to the back of the house the find the kitchen filled with smoke. He turned off the stove and used pot holders to grab the smoldering pan or charred meat and drop it in the sink. His wife came into the kitchen crying into her hands

â??Heâ??s not here! Tobyâ??s gone! She took him!â?

The husband then took her in his arms as she cried. It was then that he noticed blood on the lid of the trash can. A pit formed in his stomach as he left his wife and opened the trash can. He exhaled as he realized that it was only the chicken his wife had made. It was then that his eyes shot wide open as his wife let out a fresh scream of horror. As he turned toward her, he caught sight of the melted remains of the teething ring on the bottom of the open oven.

[Sergey]

The Pale Face

God, I need to get this down. I need this knowledge out of my head.

Iâ??m being, whatâ??s the word to use? Haunted? By a being. A horrid aberration. I can only call it pale face.

I remember the first time I saw it. I was twelve, taking a leak at the urinal of the hotel I was staying at with family. I noticed a flash of movement in the corner of my eye, though I dismissed it as nothing as it had been happening a lot lately. I went to wash my hands, and as I was about to turn on the tap, I saw it. Stood not more than a foot behind me, reflected in the mirror.

A humanoid creature, roughly five and a half feet tall, completely naked, covered in oily skin. Its fingers were elongated, impossibly bony. The whole thing looked as if it had never eaten; its chest was a harsh relief of ribs, made to look all the sicklier by the fluorescent light. It wasnâ??t breathing, either.

That is not what scared me though. Its face. A perfectly smooth oval shape, seemingly much too large and heavy for its scrawny neck, with two impossibly deep holes of blackness where one would expect to find eyes. It stared at me. It didnâ??t move; no single muscle twitched. It simply stood there, those jet pits boring into me for what felt like hours.

After what felt like an eternity, I realized my legs had unlocked and I bolted for the door too terrified to scream. I ignored my room, running in a child-like panic to my parentâ??s room a few doors down. I brought my fist down again and again on the door, desperate to raise my family. As I finally heard the door unlock I risked a single glance down the corridor from which I came. It was there. It stood completely still, eyes fixed on me, oily feet staining a brown smudge onto the carpet. I barged past my father as he swung the door inwards, diving onto the sofa and throwing myself face down onto the cushion. My father turned from the door, asking me what I was doing as he let the door close behind him. I could only respond with wide-eyed terror as I saw it in the doorway, both of those pit-like eyes on me until the door obstructed it from my vision.

Rest did not find me that night. After an hour or two of restless tossing and turning, I awoke to see it stood at the foot of the sofa. I stared back at it, too afraid to look away; its gaze was almost mesmerizing, it made me feel empty, completely devoid of humanity, nothing but a consciousness stripped bare. I know not how long I kept this, as at some point my body had given up and lapsed back into sleep, and I was greeted by the warm sunlight of morning streaming through the roomâ??s blinds.

I was not sad to be leaving the hotel that morning.

However, the pale face had not finished with me. I began to see it everywhere I went, each time preceded by catching a glimpse of some formless shape at the very edge of my vision. I would see it curled at the end of my bed upon waking, stood in a doorway as I walked to school, stood in my locker, stood in a group of children, Stood behind me as I brushed my teeth. Never once throughout these sightings did itâ??s bottomless pits leave me, emptying me, leaving me feeling less like myself with each passing day. My mental health deteriorated soon after. I would shout at it, attack it, beg and plead and cry to left alone. My girlfriend left me. She told me she couldnâ??t feel the boy she loved in me anymore. My friends abandoned me. They didnâ??t want to be seen with the freak, with his permanent wide eyes, was losing weight and pale from insomnia.

My parents tried to help me. I was sent to numerous psychologists, psychiatrists, mediums, spirit guides and any other quack who said they could cure the disease in my head. The pale face was always there, though; stood just behind the doctorâ??s chair, eyes never leaving me. I would lash out at it, scream at it. They each concluded I was mad. I overheard my parents one night, they were in tears. They planned to send me away to a psychiatric hospital.

I ran away from home that night.

I was filled with hate, anger, sadness. I stared hard at the loathsome creature that shared my refuge of shop doorways and pungent alleyways. I felt no fear of it anymore, only a seething, all-consuming anger; I hated it for what it had done to me, took away who I was, leaving me a hollow shell of a soul in a deteriorating body. It still stared back at me, those pits of madness in its loathsome head lapping away at the last remaining dregs of my humanity.

Last night however, I had a dream. The first Iâ??d had in weeks. I didnâ??t see the pale face, I saw hundreds. An impossibly fast kaleidoscopic slide show of different people, different places and different times; all mingled together in a blur with only one common factor â?? each person had their own pale face. I then had my vision pulled away and thrust into the most terrifying thing I have ever seen; I glimpsed hell itself. I saw a trail of damned souls being lead to impossibly shaped obsidian gates, each being being lead by its own pale face.

It was only then, as I started awake, that I finally understood the nature of my tormentor. A pale face is a guide for the damned. It is with you always. Yours is in the room with you right now. Each time you feel yourself being watched when you are alone, that vague sense of unease in a perfectly normal environment. That is when you are feeling the pale faceâ??s eyes on you, each time you see a blink of movement at the edges of your vision; that is your pale face.

There is one last thing, however. Should you very often see a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye, or always feel watched and scrutinized while you are alone, as I have, make peace with your family, your friends, anything and anyone you hold dear for it can mean only one thing.

You have been chosen, as I have, to become a pale face.

[Earl]

Sergey's on a roll. This topic should be retitled "Tales From Sergey's Crypt."