Recent Discussion

This Week's Active Posts

Family of Three Plus One
• Comments: 18 • Facebook: 10
The Naera
• Comments: 11 • Facebook: 16
The Lost Chord
• Comments: 13 • Facebook: 5
Memory Lane
• Comments: 13 • Facebook: 1
Tick Tock Goes the Clock
• Comments: 8 • Facebook: 2

Your Favorited Pastas

  • Your favorites will be here.

Available Beta Readers

Whether you're looking for someone to help proofread and refine your creepypasta or you'd like to offer your help to writers in need of a second opinion, please check out the Available Beta Readers post!

Creepypasta Prompts

Have an idea for a great pasta, but lack the time or ability to see it through? Or do you have the time and the will to write a story, but your personal font of inspiration is running dry? The Creepypasta Prompts page should be helpful to people in both camps!

RSS Stories Looking For Feedback


December 29, 2012 at 12:00 PM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.8/10 (364 votes cast)

l once knew a man who was afraid of nothing. No monstrosity man made nor fictitious could subdue his spirits, and the mere mention of the word ‘supernatural’ would elicit a most cynical example of laughter. This bravery was both his greatest strength and his most profound weakness, for ignorance and heedlessness can often be mistaken for a deep and foolhardy sense of courage. He was to learn the limits of his bravery down in those oppressive tunnels, deep below the streets of Amsterdam.

His name was Henke, due mainly to his Finnish ancestry on his father’s side, and although his parents had passed away at an early age, it was clear that he believed his courageous convictions could be attributed to his father’s character.

I had met Henke four years earlier while travelling with some friends on a rather common rites of passage: Backpacking through Europe during a university break. He and a few of his friends were on a similar trip and happened to be staying at the same youth hostel as myself and my companions in Rome. We all got on well, but both Henke and I struck up an immediate rapport with one another as he was a keen musician and I was at the time still filled with the self promise, or should I say delusion, of stardom through my own musical pursuits.

This friendship continued onwards and we maintained it via email; swapping musical discoveries, talking about politics, and generally getting to know one another as best two people can through simple correspondence. I grew to enjoy our friendly debates over the years and on a few occasions we even visited one another. Henke moved around a lot and as such it gave me a good excuse to visit a number of mainland European countries, not to mention that he always knew which local pubs served the best beer and which restaurants were to be best avoided.

Last year I visited Henke in Amsterdam. The Dutch city seemed to be a good fit for him as he always liked to live in the liveliest of places, and with countless meandering canals, bridges, and walkways swamped with millions of tourists every year, Amsterdam, for Henke, felt like the very embodiment of life and vibrancy. At the time he had been recently hired to carry out some important maintenance work on the Rijksmuseum, which is one of Amsterdam’s most impressive buildings, and this seemed to have rooted him to the one place for longer than was usual.

When I met him in a small darkened corner of a local pub, well away from the burgeoning tourist trade, I was shocked at his appearance. Here was a friend I had grown to know as being larger than life, exuding bravado, and yet I was presented with a shell of a man, slight in stature and racked with self doubt.

He proceeded to impart on me the circumstances which resulted in his precarious condition, of which I will relay to you now.

Henke had been working as a civil engineer for some time and relished the challenge of renovating and maintaining the Rijksmuseum, a building with such a long and compelling history. The museum houses Amsterdam’s finest collection of historical relics, and being given access to some of its more hidden places which are inaccessible to the general public, piqued Henke’s fascination for the obscured and unique.

He had been hired most specifically to lead a maintenance crew which had been assigned to assess and repair the building’s foundations. This oldest part of the structure dated back centuries and had a most bizarre and, it must be said, quite horrific history. The Rijksmuseum itself had been constructed in 1885, but what it had been built upon possessed a much older and interesting history.

In the bowels of the building under its marble floors and deep red brickwork, lay a labyrinth of abandoned tunnels which at one time served as part of the old city’s sewer network. They had long been disused and fallen into disrepair but they were nonetheless an essential part of the building’s foundations and had to be assessed and repaired, otherwise the entire structure would be in danger of subsiding.

The ground and upper levels of the museum were beautiful and displayed many wonderful historical relics from all over the world. So welcoming and warm was the atmosphere of the building that it was difficult to imagine the darkness which festered below. After some quick words with the building manager, Henke proceeded to an old, seldom used room at the back of the museum which housed a rather antiquated, creaking, and cage-like elevator which was being used to access the lower levels and sewers underneath.

Pulling on a pair of dirt covered yellow overalls, complete with hard hat and head lamp, Henke entered the elevator for his first descent. On his trip downwards towards the abandoned sewers, Henke thought to himself that those of a nervous disposition may let such a dank and isolated place prey on their minds. This may have explained why the previous man in charge of the repairs had left so abruptly, citing nervous exhaustion and refusing to ever so much as set foot in those pitch black corridors of cold stone ever again.

The elevator winch and engine stuttered as it lowered Henke down four levels into the basement. With each passing floor he observed a slight dimming of the lights and each subterranean level appeared more sparse, and stone-like than the one before. A rusted plate attached to the elevator betrayed its age. It struck Henke that the year of its construction, 1932, must have been amongst the last periods of maintenance carried out there before the persecution of the Jewish people and the outbreak of war in Europe.

Henke knew much of the shameful history of the region as he was part Jewish and his great Grandfather had died during the holocaust. Many had fled to Amsterdam for sanctuary from the Nazi regime in the early 1930s, but the long blighting arm of Hitler’s horrific ‘final solution’ eventually reached the borders of Holland, sweeping many thousands away to those shameful and barbaric concentration camps.

The elevator shuddered to a halt and after forcing the rusted sliding door aside, Henke disembarked. The tunnels – comprising Amsterdam’s disused sewer network – were curious in construction and steeped in a history which stretched back much farther into the distant past than that of the museum itself. Having spoken to his employers, Henke had been specifically told to pay heed to the assessment and repair crews’ knowledge of the tunnel layout, as the place could be disorientating and as the lighting system required to illuminate repair work had not been fully installed yet, that he would find it all too easy to get lost.

Most importantly Henke was informed that the two-way radios normally used to communicate between team members had been playing up, and that they were very unreliable due to interference, probably produced by nearby metallic deposits in the ground. This meant that communication between his team members would have to be carried out verbally, or by using the light from their torches to convey simple messages via Morse code; this was particularly useful in the longer tunnels. In any case, it struck Henke that the catacombs below really were isolated, lonely places.

Care must be taken.

Henke was greeted by Jones, his second in command. Jones was a substantially stout fellow and was rather humorous in nature. He debriefed Henke on the current progress being made by his new team, informing him that the initial mapping and assessments of the tunnels had gone well. All in all there were 16 four man crews, each of which would be assigned a section of the sewers to repair. Henke would supervise two of the crews which were working in one of the more isolated tunnels.

After walking for 15 minutes Henke arrived at the area which would be his workplace for the next few months. The sound of occasional drilling could be heard in the distance as the workers continued to install the still non-operational lighting system. As Henke’s men would be working further away from the other crews, it seemed logical – although not desirable – that they would have a lighting system installed last.

Each passageway seemed oddly shaped with no two tunnels being quite alike, this entire section of the sewer was in fact so antiquated that it had been built long before the careful planning of such constructions had become commonplace. One tunnel would arch onwards for over several hundred metres in a strange semi-circle, while others bisected it at right angles, carrying on in a regimented straight line into the darkness. Henke even found a passageway which seemed to dip and rise only to slither its way along in an unnatural S-shape. Some tunnels seemed to go on forever, others stopped abruptly as if the original builders had been unable to complete their work, leaving in a hurry. Jones tried to keep the conversation light and with his experience of walking through the tunnels for the past two months, Henke was glad to have a guide to show him the way.

Waiting in a large alcove were four of Henke’s team. They would work this section of the tunnels during the day, while the other shift would take over later, working through the night. Jones introduced each of them. They seemed nice enough, but Henke was surprised to find the men largely in the grips of silence. In his experience humour was normally found in abundance, with repair crews using it to slice through the monotony of working in such cramped and repetitive conditions. Here though, he found them uttering not one word, sitting in silence in that imposing alcove, removed from any consideration of camaraderie or fellowship; the only inference that they were not a collection of subterranean statues was the occasional movement of their head lamps altering the shadows around them.

They seemed wholly disconnected from, not just each other, but the very environment in which they worked.

Henke brushed this feeling of unease aside and committed himself to cultivating conversation; if these men were in some way angry or uncomfortable with one another then Henke would soon lay that to rest; a happy workforce is a productive one.

The first order of business was to survey this section of tunnels and decide where repairs were most pressing. Preliminary assessments had already been made, but Henke liked to evaluate any repair project he was involved in from the ground up. Henke walked the catacombs with his team and noticed immediately that they were still on edge, that they seemed frightened in an almost childlike way. No amount of questions casual or otherwise could elicit anything other than one word broken replies. As they toured the numerous tunnels, lighting their way with the small torches attached to their safety helmets and taking notes about failing walls, water damage, and estimations of any possible repair time, Henke pressed the men on their obvious sense of fear, asking why such an experienced crew who no doubt had worked in many tunnels before, were so apprehensive of mere bricks and mortar.

They avoided the questions, looking nervously at one another and changing the topic of conversation with mono-toned lethargy whenever it veered towards their experiences of the old sewers, or of their previous boss’s unceremonious departure from the job. It began to dawn on Henke that the men’s verbal and physical awkwardness was not the result of tensions between workers, but rather of a deep seated and worrying apprehension; of what he did not know. What was clear was that his team seemed to be counting down the minutes until their shift ended, when they could finally clamber out of the darkness into the safety of the world above.

As the beam from his head lamp trickled over the damp and crumbling brickwork of the tunnels, Henke again conceded to himself that some may find such a setting unnerving; but not him. Whatever had caused such trepidation and disquiet amongst the men working down there, was surely a simple case of idle superstition, mischief making, and the quite understandable psychological toll of working in a dark, cramped, and forgotten part of the world. Even Jones, who had through most of the catacombs been jovial and talkative, now adopted the same sullen expression and seriousness of disposition as the others.

The passages wound and meandered their way through the ground, long steady trajectories intermittently and abruptly interrupted by sharp blind corners which made it difficult for Henke to identify exactly where they were. There were so many winding corridors that Henke felt slightly disorientated and was ready to joke with his men that if they didn’t like him as a boss that they could probably leave him there and he would never find his way out.

But his men were no longer with him.

He was standing at the mouth of a tunnel and while he had continued onwards talking, trying to fill in the difficult silences, his men had stopped at the last junction. They stood motionless some twenty feet behind, staring at Henke with blank expressions occasionally betrayed by the slightest flicker of a very real and gripping emotion beneath; a look of suppressed terror.

When he asked why the men were not following, they whispered in reply that where they stood was where the last of the repair work was needed. Pulling out a map and perusing it intently by the light of his head lamp, Henke surmised that he must have wandered into the most remote part of the sewer network, at the back of the catacombs, and while the tunnels continued into the foreboding distance this must have marked the boundary of the Rijksmuseum’s foundations.

What confused him was that where he stood had been marked for repair. He was standing at the entrance to what appeared to be a rather innocuous tunnel, but on the wall next to the opening Henke could clearly see that someone had placed an identification plaque there, marking it for repair. It read ‘Tunnel 72F: Water damage & failing brickwork’.

After double checking his map, it was clear to Henke that tunnel 72F was indeed still under the Rijksmuseum foundations and had to be appraised and repaired, but when he told his men this they simply informed him that where they stood was as far as they would go.

Anger began to take over, accompanied by frustration that the team he was supposed to be supervising were being so difficult, but even raising his voice and demanding that they head into the tunnel did not seem to move them. Just as things became heated and Henke began demanding that the men do as he say, Jones interjected:

“We’ve worked down here for two months, Henke. This is a good, hard working, talented crew you have. They will do exactly as you ask, when you ask it, but you will have to accept that for them, and me, our work stops at this junction and that none of us will go near tunnel 72F. Whether you want to believe it or not, there is something in there.”

Taking a deep breath and calming himself, Henke explained to his men that he understood the stress induced by working in such an environment for an extended period of time, but that repairs in that tunnel had to be carried out. He would talk to them later about it, but for now he would carry out the survey himself.

As Henke stepped over the threshold and into the apparently forbidden tunnel, Jones and the other men protested vehemently, shouting on Henke to leave the passageway immediately, but he saw this as foolish. He was not to be swayed by unsubstantiated, superstitious nonsense. There was nothing in this tunnel to fear, and once more Henke would prove to others that they should not be so scared, by stepping up, being a man, and pushing forward into places others who are more timid in nature fear to tread. It was a point of pride for Henke, he believed in always being bold.

While the tunnel seemed fairly common in its construction at first glance, as Henke progressed deeper into the darkness it was apparent that this was unlike any sewer he had seen before. The ground was uneven; the floor dipped and rose much like some of the other tunnels, but what was peculiar was how fractured the surface felt under his feet. The ground was obscured by a thick, almost oily water which in places reached up as high as his knees. He trudged through the stagnant water slowly, not because he was scared, but simply to insure he had a sound footing. One thing was apparent, however long the water had lay there it was long enough to fester and produce an unpleasant, rotten stench.

The walls were of a different, much older composition than most of the brickwork he had seen in the sewers elsewhere. Whatever the material was which had been used, it was hundreds of years old and was obviously failing, with long penetrating cracks scarring the surface of the increasingly unstable walls and ceiling.

The light from Henke’s head lamp was enough to illuminate much of the tunnel, but as he ventured further towards what he thought was a dead-end, he realised that the passageway was narrowing and that the tunnel itself did not stop there, but rather tapered slightly before curving abruptly into a blind corner.

Henke estimated that he was around 80 feet into the sewer and while his curiosity for what could be beyond that corner urged him to move forward, he believed he had made his point to his men and would now ask them to abandon their fears and enter the tunnel with him. He unholstered the black hand held radio which all the workers had been issued with from his side, and began requesting for Jones and the others to meet him at the corner of the tunnel.

No one responded, and nothing but a quiet buzz could be heard from the radio speaker. Of course Henke now remembered that he had been warned about how unreliable the radios could be, but just as he was about to turn and shout on his men, something caught his eye.

Surely not.

There was nothing in this old tunnel but stagnant water and himself! But pushing relentlessly against Henke’s bravado and self assured disposition was the creeping reality that something was standing at the end of the tunnel. Obscured by the turn, Henke could only see a glimpse of it, but it was unmistakable. A ragged piece of cloth poked out from around the corner and although Henke’s mind was unwilling to accept it, the cloth was obviously part of a sleeve, a sleeve which contained an arm, of who’s or what’s he did not know.


Stubbornness can be an effective tonic for even the most horrifying and unbelievable of situations. Henke’s belief in himself and his long history of triumphs over adversity welled up inside of him, filling his chest with pride, and with a strong confident stride Henke marched towards whatever was behind that corner.

The slush and slosh of the black water echoed throughout the tunnel as he made his way to that blind turn. Apprehension now turned to sadness and empathy, for standing there, shivering and dishevelled, was a girl who could not have seen more than 13 years. Her face and hands were blackened with grime and dirt hiding her pale and malnourished frame. A ripped shirt was all that she wore, hanging from her loosely with much of her body exposed to the cold of that dank, isolated place.

Gazing at him between strands of dark matted hair, Henke was struck by how beautiful the young girl was, and how afraid she must have been. At first he believed that somehow she must have made her way into the sewers and lost her way, but no matter how softly he asked her she would not answer, appearing afraid and nervous.

Henke tried his radio again, but was greeted with the same meaningless static. Regardless, he had to get her out of that tunnel, back through the sewers and into the Rijksmuseum and seen by a doctor. He did not want to shout on his men as it may have added to the girl’s disquiet, so he decided to lead her out of the passage himself. As he approached, Henke spoke gently to the girl explaining that he would take her up above to safety. She seemed terrified of him, and this made Henke feel uncomfortable as he prided himself on being someone who would do anything to protect the vulnerable, and not at all someone to be feared.

She made no sound, but as Henke neared she raised her hand, pointing one finger at the light on his helmet. He suddenly realised that the light must have been frightening her somehow, so he merely took the lamp off and held it in his hand, the torch now illuminating the girl’s shirt more starkly. The changed angle of light brought something unsettling to Henke’s attention. Pinned to the shirt was a yellow cloth star. It surprised him as it was entirely familiar but it took a moment for his mind to grasp the memory; it was exactly like the yellow stars forced upon the Jewish populations during their persecution, to allow non-Jews and members of the Nazi regime to identify them.

Henke’s mind fought against the ramifications of such a discovery. After a momentary pause, he once again was resolute, disregarding the cloth star and asserting to himself that he must take this poor girl out of such horrible surroundings.

A tremendous sense of sadness overcame Henke as he grew closer. The torch flickered unusually in his hand as he looked down at the girl, her face momentarily illuminated by the shifting light, as he prepared to carry her out of the sewers if need be. But this sense of duty, this compulsion to be brave and assertive in even the darkest of places, was now replaced with something which Henke had never felt before. Up his spine and from the very pit of his stomach fear gripped him, terror took him, and a horror so potent made him feel anxious, weak, and unsteady.

For Henke had not noticed something so subtle, yet essential to his predicament. The girl had not stopped pointing at him as he drew closer. Her arm was ridged and her finger remained outstretched, even the light which was now in his hand seemed entirely unimportant to her. Realisation swept over him like a plague of abject dread.

The girl was not pointing at the light, she was pointing behind him.

Henke did not remember much more of what happened in that tunnel, but he knew that he had indeed turned to face whatever was standing there. He thanked God (not something he was normally inclined to do) that Jones and those men who feared that dark hollow so acutely, had dispensed with this fear and ran into the passageway as soon as they heard his screams.

Henke regained his composure back at the alcove where he had met the men, but he immediately pleaded with them that they take him back out of the tunnels, which is what they did. Once back in the elevator room of the Rijksmuseum, the men sat and had a frank discussion with Henke about what had been happening down there over the past few months. Jones explained that the first survey team which had encountered that specific sewer passageway resigned from their posts after just one night down there. A week later one of their co-workers who decided to stay on, committed suicide after complaining to everyone that he could hear whispers coming from that tunnel while he worked nearby. Not long after that Jones’ previous supervisor had seen someone standing at the mouth of tunnel 72F and had followed them inside. One of the clean-up crews found him crawling out of the sewer on his hands and knees, crying hysterically like a child.

He had been heavily medicated ever since, but no one knew exactly what he had seen down there, he would not talk of it, but the men who recovered him claimed he was repeating one word over and over frantically:


Henke was a nervous wreck after his experience and ordered that no one go into tunnel 72F. He continued to work down in the sewers, day after day in the dark, but he was consumed by the notion that he had seen something so frightening that he had forced himself to forget. Over the next few weeks he lost weight, and had trouble sleeping often waking up in a disturbed state, drenched in a cold sweat, unable to recall what he had been dreaming about.

The very idea that brave Henke could be reduced to this, that he could be affected so deeply by something he could not even remember in its entirety, preyed on his pride and his sense of self worth. He first tried to combat this feeling of helplessness by increasing his knowledge of the tunnels. Knowledge, as they say, is power and Henke felt that if he knew more about that place in the dark, that he would somehow be less afraid of it. He read about the history of the museum, and while he found very little of it helpful, one local legend struck a chord with him.

It was rumoured that during the second world war a number of Jewish families took refuge in the tunnels below the Rijksmuseum. When two SS officers were tipped off as to their whereabouts, they entered the tunnels with some local volunteers hoping to arrest them down there and most probably send them off to a concentration camp. The rumours were that the families ambushed the SS officers and their Nazi sympathisers, killing them and dumping the bodies somewhere in the sewers.

This was the story Henke related to me. It was sad to see him so shaken and vulnerable; a strong powerful individual who had never shown so much as a hint of fear for, or of, anything, to be reduced to a diminished man living on his nerves.

Unfortunately the story does not end there; some men are haunted both by what they have seen, and by what they cannot understand. Ego can be a terrible burden on anyone. Once it is fractured or damaged, the lasting effects can be devastating. Henke could not let go of his pride, nor his desire to feel strong again, whole. He had never been afraid of anything before and no matter what was in that tunnel, no matter how much I attempted to dissuade him, he was determined to confront it and reclaim his self worth.

Three days later Henke’s body was found at the mouth of tunnel 72F, stuffed into an old duffel bag. It was a heart attack which had killed him, but whoever broke, twisted, and shoved his body into that morbid sack after he died was never caught.

I should mention that the bag was of particular interest to the police in case it could reveal something about Henke’s death. It was traced to Germany, army issue to be precise, and hadn’t been manufactured since 1941.

Credit To – Michael Whitehouse

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.8/10 (364 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

Writer’s Block

December 29, 2012 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.6/10 (163 votes cast)

The furious scribblings of an aspiring writer can be heard throughout the almost vacant library. A lone entity, in a blissful state of ink to paper, processes a masterpiece.

James was dying to finalize his thought, but he could not wrap his consciousness around the perfect ending for his story. Frustratingly, he threw his utensil to the ground – happy in the thought that no one was around to see his embarrassing reaction to a seemingly trivial predicament. He had been working on the tale for months now trying to perfect his creation, but he did not care about temporal matters. He only wanted to be proud of his accomplishment – to be content in his first effort at an original writing. He laughed at the silly thought of just never finishing his work; that he would be doomed to endlessly staring at his incomplete narrative.

Earlier in life, James was often shunned for his interest in writing. He was labeled as an outcast for dabbling in the arts, but he cared not for the opinions of others. Now that he was in college, the notion of someone devoting their life to writing was not as ridiculous – he felt pleased in that fact. He no longer had to defend his love and he could finally focus on it. Writing, however, was harder work then he was willing to admit. Every idea was taken and written in better manner than he could ever hope to achieve. That wouldn’t stop him though, he had decided long ago that he would bring forth his true passion to tangible fruit regardless of the odds against him. He had read countless books on all manner of subjects, longing to be inspired – but never held his breath when delving into a new genre. All too often, he would sigh in disapproval at his choice of material, but one category never displeased him.

Horror was an emotion James felt was neglected in modern society, it was a feeling most people wanted to forget as unnecessary to the human condition. James was saddened in the thought that he could not remember a time when he was truly terrified. What annals of his mind were untapped simply because he had not experienced the full range of natural stigmas? The question depressed James. He wanted to live these sensations and found much solace in the solution to his problem. Reading. By reading, James could react to scenarios he could never truly experience – he adjudicated that horror was the only genus of writings that would satisfy his emotional cravings. Stories of ancient artifacts, of evil entities, of rituals and murders all circled his dorm-room, but his favorite story dealt with a demon-like persona named Yendismai who prevents a scientist from discovering hidden truths about the universe. James enjoyed this particular read wholly because it made him feel like there was more to the world than just reality. These books transported him to another thread on the clothe of existence and he was enthralled in the escapist mentality of submerging oneself.

James jumped up in cognizance of his trailing thought. “Damn it! I have to focus if I ever want to finish this,” he thought to himself. He picked up his favorite pen from the ground and situated his paper to begin working again. Something bothered him though. He looked around the area he was sitting remembering that he choose a corner of the library on the third floor specifically so that he would be left alone. It was dark and the eerie silence was not completely known to James until now that he was observing his surroundings. He started to sweat, but ignored his uncomfortable state in light of the fact that he needed to finish his story. He quickly dismissed any premonitions and began to…

“What are you doing here all alone?” said the friendly voice coming from the new figure sitting across from him in the once-empty chair.

“How did you get here without me noticing?” James replied, somewhat unsteadily, fearing the response.

“I guess I have alway been quiet,” said the girl with a certain charm about her.

“What is your name?”


James pondered the surreal nature of what was happening. He didn’t know why, but he felt sick and disturbed at the occurrence presenting itself. The dark musty corner of the library thickened and he felt unable to breath steadily. James suddenly panicked inside of himself, he felt as though he wasn’t supposed to be here. As if he was breaking some unwritten code in life; he found himself unable to stare directly at Sidney and he was trying to distance himself from the situation.

“What’s wrong?” The simple question lingered in the air and bellowed an aroma of confusion that permeated the stagnant positioning of the seemingly lighthearted encounter.

“Nothing, I just feel sick all of a sudden.” James was unsure of what to say next. He wanted to finish his story, but he knew that he had to deal with whatever was bothering him first.

“Okay…maybe you should put your work away? You seem rather stressed out.” Sidney was noticeably confused at James’s reactions, but she was agitated at his lack of interest more-so.

“Yeah, that is a good idea. Sorry for all of this, I just am having a bad reaction to the dust in here.” James lied, but he didn’t want to hurt the girls feelings even though he didn’t know the first thing about her. He decided that he would humor her acquaintance and would make up this awkward introduction by talking to her elsewhere. James cringed internally when he put the incomplete story into his backpack. Why did he feel like he was making a mistake?

Later, at the coffee shop just outside campus, James became increasingly intrigued at Sidney. She had explained that she could not really give him an answer for why she had ventured to the third floor of the library nor could she elaborate on the reasonings for saying hello. All that she could reveal was that she liked to do things on a whim and that James should not be concerned with things that didn’t matter. The weariness in the library was wearing off and James felt much better now that he was thrusted back into normalcy. They talked for hours about each other’s lives; James couldn’t help but feel like Sidney exaggerated on a few instances, but he was much too polite to point any inconsistencies in her tales. He was just glad that someone was taking an interest in him, he was so used to being ignored.

At the conversation’s end, James got Sidney’s number and felt quiet accomplished in the strange turn of events that occurred. Perhaps Sidney could become a possible love interest for James; the thought was surely pleasing to his mind, but he felt as though he was getting ahead of himself. Back at his dorm, James reclined and began to recount the memories made that day. He pulled out his story from his back-pack to see how much work he still needed to get done and noticed something odd. All of the corrections and ideas he had scribbled during his stay at the library were erased as if he had not altered his story at all. James’s heart stopped and he became very at-edge. There was no one in the library able to access his bag besides himself and Sidney and he had kept his back-pack on the entire time at the coffee shop. How could anyone have possibly taken it out of his person and why would anyone do such a thing? James could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead and he was getting extremely anxious. “This is impossible,” he thought to himself. James decided to take a nap, perhaps he would feel more comfortable after resting a bit.

James’s dreams were plagued by nightmarish figures pulling at him and questioning him about his knowledge. These figures eventually converged into one being with aberrant proportions; it stared directly into James’s eyes as if demanding him of something.

When he awoke, James was feeling more ill than when he had absolved to sleep. He immediately pulled his story out of his bag to find that it was still showing that he had made no alterations since the beginning of the day. James sighed and let the facts dwindle in significance until he no longer cared about the harsh reality. He rejected the disturbing thoughts and began to re-mark his story as best he could to what it looked before Sidney had made her appearance. “Sidney. Had she taken my story?” James was thinking clearer than he ever had before trying to recall each and every detail of her uncanny visit. “There is no way. Besides, what reason would she have for such an action?” James went back to working on his story, but he didn’t even have time to write a single word before his phone rang.

It was Sidney’s number. He was surprised that she had called him so soon, she must have really been interested in him. He answered without hesitation.


“Hey James! Look, I have been thinking and I would love it if I could see you tomorrow. There are a few things I want to tell you.”

“Well…okay, but where?”

“Back at our spot at the library. Be there for ten ok?”

“Yeah sure, I was planning on being there late tomorrow anyways.”

“Sounds great! See you then.”

She hung up without saying goodbye and James’s phone produced that familiar tone letting him know that the conversation was over – in case it wasn’t obvious. James placed the phone on his desk and smiled to himself. He was happy that he was seeing her again because he had secretly longed for someone to care about for a long time. Maybe this would be the beginning of something beautiful. After a while of childish jubilation, James began to think once more of his story. He started to piece-together how he could conclude the story, but he felt great hesitation in his mind. James got the uncontrollable feeling that he was discovering something forbidden. He began to jerk and spasm every time he put pen to paper and was becoming enraged at himself; he wanted nothing more than to finish his story, but he could not ignore the vibrations in his skull. Tears started to form in the corners of his eyes. James was screaming in pain at the idea of firming-up his work as if he was unlocking potential in his brain that was forcibly shut-off. Revelations passed over his eyes, but he was seeing nothing as he blankly stare into another dimension. James agonizingly pushed his eyes to a closed position as if it would stop the perfected madness coursing through his veins. James was losing consciousness and his mind went void as he slammed his head on the cold hard ground of his dorm.

Luckily, when James awoke it was still time enough for him to get ready for his first class. His head was still throbbing, but he could not tell if it was from physical pain or mental adumbration. He realized that his eyes turned to tunnel-vision as they glanced over his story on the ground beside him. He quickly shoved the papers into his back-pack and reorganized his disheveled appearance because after his final class of the day was over, he would have no time to return to his dorm in preparation for meeting Sidney. He left his dwelling with the determination to keep his mind from numbing him, but he knew he would be unable to prevent another apocalypse in the machinations of his cerebral-being if the emergence was on-setting.

Throughout the classes of the day, James could not keep focus. He was constantly losing his center of attention to the night before and his story, but he made sure to not strain too hard on the subject. He laughed to himself with the notion that he did not want to be driven insane before he met Sidney again. With each passing hour, James felt less worried about his mental fits of past and more concerned about that night with Sidney. “What does she want to tell me exactly?” James thought to himself as he lost interest in his professor. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was not right. The world seemed tilted at a wrong angle, the hue of the sky was discolored ever-so-slightly and the voices of passing students around him were all at a frequency he was not familiar with. James was unbalanced and he needed to put his paranoia to rest. As he sat up to leave his final class, James discovered he was quite tired despite having taken his nap and being knocked unconscious in close succession. All the thoughts racing inside of him were draining his lifeblood from him. James started to feel anticipation as he stepped outside feeling the cold air inviting him towards his destination. He could feel the paleness of his face even though he could not see anything in the darkness of the night.

James walked into the library with the sudden inkling that he was forgetting something. His mind was processing the facts of his life in the last day. “What am I missing?” James questioned himself rigorously as he took caution in each movement to the third floor of the library. The veins on his head were enlarging and James felt like he was absorbing the knowledge from his surroundings. He could not pinpoint the source of the discomposure in his internal being, but he could not help but feel that another apex was approaching. He turned the corner of the final book-shelf and saw that Sidney was already at the table waiting for him. She looked more beautiful than he remembered and she had a certain graceful solemnity about her.

“Hey, I came up here to finish my story so I hope you don’t mind if I work while we talk.” The words left James mouth with a newfound confidence. His aliments were no longer affecting him in a disabling manner and he was feeling much better now that he was in good company.

“I knew you were going to be working on that silly story. Just put it away for right now, I won’t be long.”

James’s heart stopped. Did he hear her correctly? Did she just say what he thought she said? There was no way Sidney could know that he was writing a story because he had never mentioned it to her. Something was not right and James instantly knew he was in danger. He quickly remembered that the library was practically empty on his way up; no one would know that he was up there and no one would be able to hear anything happening that high up from ground level. James’s pulse was deadening and he felt his clinging to the tangible world was weakening. He couldn’t bare the gnawing of his insatiable curiosity.

“Who are you?!” James screamed with a wild abandon of all decorum.

The lights in the library flickered and James realized that he had not made actual conversation with another human being besides Sidney since he had met her. The bizarre qualities of the day finally shed their cocoon of pseudo-realism to expose the truth. James’s revelation opened his eyes for the first time since the aforementioned day’s experience and he observed Sidney for what she really was. She was now contorting in a seizure-like twisting of limbs and flesh. She grew in stature and her hair receded into her skull so that she was just a gray husk of the girl James’s mind tricked him into seeing. Her arms grew five feet long each; her hands became wrinkled and her fingernails lengthened into talons. Sidney’s legs bent backwards to a beast like appearance and her clothes were absorbed in a mass of tendrils surrounding her body. Her face elongated to hold a new set of black boney protrusions and here eyes delved into her globulous visage. Her mouth was made cavernous and opened to a morbid extension that left her lower jaw hanging at about her mid-body. She was emitting no sound from her crevice other than the sickening noise of a “call-waiting” tone.

“I am Sidney,” the creature screeched. It positioned itself directly in front of James before squealing: “There are some things in this universe that are better left unfinished. We could not afford for you to complete your story lest your kind would have discovered us prematurely.”

Sidney inched its way forward as James held onto his breath, waiting for the end to encompass his being. He spent a split second planning an escape only to discern that it would be to no avail. James felt at ease knowing his mind would no longer have to strain. The search was over. He had found Sidney.


I found the remnants of this story outside the old condemned library on campus. I was terrified reading it, but I just couldn’t put it down.

It feels like it isn’t finished though…

Credit To – [email protected]

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.6/10 (163 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare