Martes, Agosto 23, 2011


I mentioned before that I was pretty "in" with creepypasta, going so far as to join an actual community all about it. Now, I'll start off with the big daddy of human fears itself: death. So come closer and smell the decay breathing down your pretty neck...

The Reanimated Corpse by Anonymous

Somewhere in the middle of the Desert in Nevada, there’s a place where, if you look to the west at sunset you’ll be able to make out a tiny, house-shaped structure in the far distance, Wait for the sun to set completely and then you must WALK straight towards that structure without deviating.
As the night wears on, you will hear groans and cries of pain in the distance. Ignore them. You must continue to move towards where you saw the building. The night will seem much longer than any normal night, but if you continue walking until the sun comes up again behind you, you’ll find yourself suddenly in front of a battered, dusty shack. Inside, you will find no windows or doors (including the one you just came though) and in the centre of the room will be a body. Reports of the decay vary from recently dead to a skeleton with clothes.
You might recognize the clothes or possibly the face. This body is yours. You can inspect it for as long as you dare. Check it for wounds or clues to your death… check its pockets for clues about your future if you wish. But you must figure out how to leave the room and do it before your corpse awakens. If you make it out of the room, you’ll find yourself back at the edge of the desert where you started. But if your corpse stirs before you can find the way out, you’ll be trapped in that room for eternity while your corpse is allowed to roam free. What does a corpse do with a second chance at life, you ask?
Well, remember those groans and cries you heard crossing the desert? A reanimated corpse has to eat, too…

Girl from the Black Lagoon by Anonymous

When I was in the 5th grade, our class would get to spend a week at a camp. Only people from our class/school would go.

All that week, there’d been a lot of talk about a girl who had drowned in the lagoon a few years back. I heard a lot of weird stuff from other kids (scratching at the bottom of kayaks/hearing yelling and splashing at night with no one there) Most of this I chalked up to other kids my age being retarded. The counsellors wouldn’t talk to us about it.

One night we were supposed to have a guy come talk to us about snakes and lizards (for a night session). We had punch, and cookies, and waited on him for a long time. The counsellors told us he wasn’t coming, but they weren’t sure what happened to him. (They didn’t get a phone call, I never found out why he didn’t show up) So we all milled around in the main lodge instead.

A girl I didn’t recognize approached me, and asked me out of the blue if I’d heard about the story of the girl that drowned in the lagoon. I had, and relayed it to her briefly. And she told me that the story I heard wasn’t true, that the girl had been meeting her boyfriend (we weren’t allowed to be out at night with the boys, or hold hands, etc.) and they’d had a fight.

It’s been since fifth grade, but I’m pretty sure the kid left her to drown.

The story (and the way the girl was talking) got to me for some reason. Also, the girl who had died was supposed to have long black hair and glasses (which the person I was talking to did).

After she walked away, I picked her out from the other students again and told her “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

She replied, “I do.”

After that, she wandered off and I couldn’t find her any more. I asked about her with my classmates, and also spent a few weeks after I got back trying to scout her out in the cafeteria (I skipped class one day so I could kind of scout all the lunch periods), but I never saw her again.

I’d like to add, there are some incongruent things:

The girl also said some really bizarre things, like that that the ghost of the girl could possess the girls at the lodge during the full moon if it fell on a Wednesday (it wasn’t Wednesday).

Also, as far as I can tell, no one was ever drowned in that lagoon. I haven’t been able to find information on it since, just the string of reports from the other kids and the creepy girl that disappeared.

Theo Twining by

This is the tale of an incident that occurred to me a few years ago, when I was a younger man, and convinced that the world was exactly as I saw it, and worked exactly as I was told it worked.

I had just finished my undergraduate degree at a college I shall not name, in the middle of Wales. Though my degree was interesting enough, I really wanted to leave behind the books and the academia, and immerse myself in the study and practical research of the paranormal. Though my funds were slight, at best, and my student loan needed repaying, on returning to London, I placed an advertisement in my local gazette, asking for anyone who had experienced paranormal phenomena, and didn’t mind talking about it to give me a call. I couldn’t offer anything in the way of a reward for their troubles, but I did promise to buy them a drink or two while we talked over what they had experienced.

It didn’t take long for me to receive my first and only caller, and to be honest, I was quite surprised that my ad had this much success. But I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The call came while my mobile was turned off, but a number had been left on voicemail, and a few days later, I called back. I didn’t want to respond immediately, though I don’t know why. Perhaps I wanted to seem more professional. Like I had a hundred people on a waiting list or something.

Anyway, I called the next evening, and was greeted by the voice of a young man, who identified himself as Theo Twining. I asked if we could meet, but he declined, with a dry and solemn chuckle. I told him that it didn’t matter, and that we could conduct the conversation just as easily by telephone. Perhaps he was shy, I told myself. His situation was this:

Since about two weeks ago, he (and he paused for a good minute or two before recanting his tale, repeatedly telling me that I would think him stupid) had started to see worms, regular earthworms, across his path. I at first thought him a little bit paranoid before I heard the particulars of the tale. Not just outside, not just crossing his path, but in all manner of places. If he made a cup of coffee, there would be an earthworm, dried and boiled at the bottom of the cup. When he woke, he woke to find himself covered with five or six of them, and when he sat at his desk, they would crawl toward him from beneath the monitor screen, and from under his keyboard. He told me of how he lived in a neat-ish studio apartment on the third floor, and how this only happened very recently.

I listened to all he said with a rapt silence, alternating between deep fascination and a nagging guilt. I was finding such thrill in hearing this tale while Theo was undeniably suffering over it. Naturally quite hooked on his story at this point, I asked again if we could meet. Maybe he was more at ease with me now? But he seemed even less inclined now to meet. However, he did promise that he would call the next day. We agreed that I could take the call at 7pm, after I got home from work.

I work in a not-so-busy estate agent’s, so I spent most of the next day’s office hours mulling over what he had told me, and even went as far as to run an internet check on Theo Twining. What I found made revulsion rise in the pit of my stomach, a hot and acidic feeling of sickness. I don’t know for how long I sat there, still and shocked, until a co-worker shook me out of it, asking me if I was okay. It was all I could do to lie, though before me the screen gave details on Theo Twining.

A young man of (…), the same area of London in which I lived, had committed suicide in his apartment two weeks ago. The obituary and funerary notice was in the very same paper in which my advertisement appeared. I ditched my mobile as soon as I could, tossing it into a hedge, and I took the next few days off work. I went off to visit friends, not wanting to be alone.

As of writing this, I am studying for a master’s degree in my undergraduate subject. I never tried to investigate the paranormal again, after that. The world doesn’t work the way I am told it does.


The Black Tabby Cat by Anonymous

Today was the day he was dreading. He knew they were going to be extremely busy, and quite frankly he wanted to call out seeing as he was already late. His thoughts were briefly distracted by his black tabby, quietly pawing at his legs, ready for its breakfast. He made sure to fill up its bowl before he dashed out the door, returning twice to grab whatever he forgot the first few times. And he was off. 

He breathed a sigh of relief as the last customer left. It had been the best sales day of the year, and they were obviously going to celebrate. He had been contemplating going on home, but he needed to unwind too. He had no serious obligations the next day, so he could stay out as late as he wanted. So when they asked, he happily agreed to go with them. 

He couldn’t open his eyes. He was barely conscious as it was. He slapped lazily around until he managed to shut the alarm off, before he rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow. The door creaked as his black tabby walked in and jumped onto his back, where it curled up close to his head. The hot breath in his ear lulled him back to sleep.

The doorbell continued to ring. He crawled out of bed and made his way to the front door. It was his next door neighbour, a kind woman in her late seventies, who still worked. She was in her business suit, holding a trash bag. “Oh did I wake you up? I thought you were usually up by now.” “I usually am.” He said groggily. “But they let me have today off.” “Well I hate to come bearing such bad news so early in the morning,” She said, patting his hand, “but I ran over your dear tabby last night when I got home. I came straight over to tell you but you weren’t home.” He stared at her for a few seconds, before their silence was broken by its footsteps.

As you can see, these were written by other authors. Don't credit them to me.

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