Recent Discussion

This Week's Active Posts

21
Young Love
• Comments: 18 • Facebook: 3
15
Click-click
• Comments: 14 • Facebook: 1
12
The Grinning Man
• Comments: 11 • Facebook: 1
10
The Last Man of Faith
• Comments: 9 • Facebook: 1

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

Pokémon Black

November 12, 2010 at 12:26 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.9/10 (1871 votes cast)

I stumbled on this unsettling story of an obscure Pokémon bootleg/art-hack that I thought might be neat to share on here. I think this originated from 4chan, so I’ve no idea if this hack actually exists. It probably doesn’t, but it’s still a great concept/tale!:

I’m what you could call a collector of bootleg Pokémon games. Pokémon Diamond & Jade, Chaos Black, etc. It’s amazing the frequency with which you can find them at pawnshops, Goodwill, flea markets, and such.

They’re generally fun; even if they are unplayable (which they often are), the mistranslations and poor quality make them unintentionally humorous.

I’ve been able to find most of the ones that I’ve played online, but there’s one that I haven’t seen any mention of. I bought it at a flea market about five years ago.

Here’s a picture of the cartridge, in case anyone recognizes it. Unfortunately, when I moved two years ago, I lost the game, so I can’t provide you with screencaps. Sorry.

The game started with the familiar Nidorino and Gengar intro of Red and Blue version. However, the “press start” screen had been altered. Red was there, but the Pokémon did not cycle through. It also said “Black Version” under the Pokémon logo.

Upon selecting “New Game”, the game started the Professor Oak speech, and it quickly became evident that the game was essentially Pokémon Red Version.

After selecting your starter, if you looked at your Pokémon, you had in addition to Bulbasaur, Charmander, or Squirtle another Pokémon — “GHOST”.

The Pokémon was level 1. It had the sprite of the Ghosts that are encountered in Lavender Tower before obtaining the Sliph Scope. It had one attack — “Curse”. I know that there is a real move named curse, but the attack did not exist in Generation 1, so it appears it was hacked in.

Defending Pokémon were unable to attack Ghost — it would only say they were too scared to move. When the move “Curse” was used in battle, the screen would cut to black. The cry of the defending Pokémon would be heard, but it was distorted, played at a much lower pitch than normal. The battle screen would then reappear, and the defending Pokémon would be gone. If used in a battle against a trainer, when the Pokéballs representing their Pokemon would appear in the corner, they would have one fewer Pokéball.

The implication was that the Pokémon died.

What’s even stranger is that after defeating a trainer and seeing “Red received $200 for winning!”, the battle commands would appear again. If you selected “Run”, the battle would end as it normally does. You could also select Curse. If you did, upon returning to the overworld, the trainer’s sprite would be gone. After leaving and reentering the area, the spot [where] the trainer had been would be replaced with a tombstone like the ones at Lavender Tower.

The move “Curse” was not usable in all instances. It would fail against Ghost Pokémon. It would also fail if it was used against trainers that you would have to face again, such as your Rival or Giovanni. It was usable in your final battle against them, however.

I figured this was the gimmick of the game, allowing you to use the previously uncapturable Ghosts. And because Curse made the game so easy, I essentially used it throughout the whole adventure.

The game changed quite a bit after defeating the Elite Four. After viewing the Hall of Fame, which consisted of Ghost and a couple of very under leveled Pokémon, the screen cut to black. A box appeared with the words “Many years later…” It then cut to Lavender Tower. An old man was standing, looking at tombstones. You then realized this man was your character.

The man moved at only half of your normal walking speed. You no longer had any Pokémon with you, not even Ghost, who up to this point had been impossible to remove from your party through depositing in the PC. The overworld was entirely empty — there were no people at all. There were still the tombstones of the trainers that you used Curse on, however.

You could go pretty much anywhere in the overworld at this point, though your movement was limited by the fact that you had no Pokémon to use HMs. And regardless of where you went, the music of Lavender Town continued on an infinite loop. After wandering for a while, I found that if you go through Diglett’s Cave, one of the cuttable bushes that normally blocks the path on the other side is no longer there, allowing you to advance and return to Pallet Town.

Upon entering your house and going to the exact tile where you start the game, the screen would cut to black.

Then a sprite of a Caterpie appeared. It was the replaced by a Weedle, and then a Pidgey. I soon realized, as the Pokémon progressed from Rattata to Blastoise, that these were all of the Pokémon that I had used Curse on.

After the end of my Rival’s team, a Youngster appeared, and then a Bug Catcher. These were the trainers I had Cursed.

Throughout the sequence, the Lavender Town music was playing, but it was slowly decreasing in pitch. By the time your Rival appeared on screen, it was little more than a demonic rumble.

Another cut to black. A few moments later, the battle screen suddenly appeared — your trainer sprite was now that of an old man, the same one as the one who teaches you how to catch Pokémon in Viridian City.

Ghost appeared on the other side, along with the words “GHOST wants to fight!”.

You couldn’t use items, and you had no Pokémon. If you tried to run, you couldn’t escape. The only option was “FIGHT”.

Using fight would immediately cause you to use Struggle, which didn’t affect Ghost but did chip off a bit of your own HP. When it was Ghost’s turn to attack, it would simply say “…” Eventually, when your HP reached a critical point, Ghost would finally use Curse.

The screen cut to black a final time.

Regardless of the buttons you pressed, you were permanently stuck in this black screen. At this point, the only thing you could do was turn the Game Boy off. When you played again, “NEW GAME” was the only option — the game had erased the file.

I played through this hacked game many, many times, and every time the game ended with this sequence. Several times I didn’t use Ghost at all, though he was impossible to remove from the party. In these cases, it did not show any Pokémon or trainers and simply cut to the climactic “battle with Ghost.

I’m not sure what the motives were behind the creator of this hack. It wasn’t widely distributed, so it was presumably not for monetary gain. It was very well done for a bootleg.

It seems he was trying to convey a message; though it seems I am the sole receiver of this message. I’m not entirely sure what it was — the inevitability of death? The pointlessness of it? Perhaps he was simply trying to morbidly inject death and darkness into a children’s game. Regardless, this children’s game has made me think, and it has made me cry.

Credit: Super creepy Pokémon hack

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.9/10 (1871 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

Willow Creek

May 19, 2016 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 9.2/10 (338 votes cast)

This pasta was the first place winner of our Gaming Creepypasta Challenge. Congratulations to moonlit_cove!

The second and third placed winners will have their stories uploaded on the 20th and 21st. Thanks to everyone who participated!

A small orb of orange light quickly illuminated then faded back into the darkness as Paul Donovan took a draw from his cigarette. He sat slouched in a plush chair in his living room, the hand that held the cigarette now dangling over the armrest. When he exhaled, the smoke rose and hovered near the ceiling, though it was impossible to see it in the darkness.

After a brief moment of questioning his willingness to continue, he picked up the TV remote in his free hand and pressed the power button. The solid blue screen initially caused his dilated pupils to ache – so much so that he winced and glanced away from the screen for a few seconds.

Once his eyes adjusted, Paul swapped the TV remote for his wireless game controller. He pressed and held the start button until the system booted up. After taking one final draw of his cigarette, he snuffed it out in an ash tray that was resting on a nearby end table. The disc reader inside his console whirred as it spun up to load the game data.

Continue to Level 3? The dialogue box gave him one last chance to change his mind. He initially used the controller stick to highlight the “No” response, and lingered there while contemplating the possible consequences of playing on. But he had to finish what he’d started, and he hoped that by completing the game he could put an end to this madness. More importantly, he wanted his son back, and he was prepared to do whatever was necessary in order to get him home safely. He returned the cursor to the “Yes” option and confirmed his choice.

– – – – –

Being an avid lover of horror and survival games, it was only natural that Paul would accept the challenge to play this game. He had learned of it quite by accident two weeks ago as he was browsing the discussion forum of his favorite gaming site. Someone had posted a topic requesting recommendations for the scariest games. Paul opened the thread with the intention of providing a long list of his favorites, but as he read through the responses he saw how the conversation had turned in a much different direction, beginning with a reply from a user he’d never seen before:

Chameleon01: If you guys are looking for a scary game, I’ve got one for you. I’ll bet no one on this board could even finish it.

GamerGabe: PFFFFFT!! Yeah right! We’ve played everything there is. What’s the name of it then, newbie?

Dark-Shadow957: Low post count + outrageous claim = troll.

00Raven00: Well, what game is it?

RevengeofSephiroth: Let me guess, a Pokemon game?

GamerGabe: (@RevengeofSephiroth) BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Dark-Shadows957: TROLL! Come on guys, don’t feed the troll!

Chameleon01: It’s called Willow Creek.

GamerGabe: Sounds lame.

00Raven00: I googled your little game. It doesn’t exist. Nice try though. Buh-bye now.

Chameleon01: It’s a pre-production bootleg. It’s not supposed to be out until next year.

00Raven00: We still would’ve heard of it as an upcoming release. Besides that, how would you even get a hold of such a thing? Geez, some people!

Chameleon01: I work for the developer. That’s all I can say. Do you want to play it or not?

00Raven00: What system?

Chameleon01: PM me. I’ll get you the version for whatever system you need.

The more Paul read into the depth of the thread, the more his interest was piqued. He wondered whether or not 00Raven00 had gone on to request the game from this stranger. He hovered his mouse over the link to Chameleon01’s profile, then clicked it and began composing his own private message to the unknown user. He was hesitant at first to give out his home address, but he rationalized it away by telling himself it wasn’t any different than the hundreds of random strangers using eBay that had already obtained his personal information over the years.

A yellow padded envelope with no return address arrived in Paul’s mailbox four days after he sent the private message. Inside was the game disc in a paper sleeve. On the disc, crudely written in ink, was: Willow Creek: beta v. 1.0.

“Ah, so this Chameleon guy is in charge of beta testing. That makes a little more sense,” Paul mumbled to himself. His mouth then broadened into a partial smile. “Well, he didn’t have to be so cryptic about it.”

A young boy came running into the kitchen where Paul stood looking over the rest of the day’s mail.

“Who you talkin’ to, dad?” the boy asked.

“Oh, no one, Scotty. Just myself.” He shuffled through the bills and junk mail.

Scotty was ten years old, an above average student, but a typical boy all around. He loved playing the seemingly endless stream of video games that his father was constantly bringing home. They had partnered up for many adventures on most of the multiplayer games (unless Paul deemed the game to be too mature for Scotty), and even when games were single player, Scotty loved to watch as his father solved all the puzzles and defeated the toughest bosses. Paul knew that Scotty’s mother would probably not approve of all of the games that they’d played together, but she hadn’t had a say in the matter for nearly a year now.

“We got a new game,” Paul announced to his son, holding the disc out toward Scotty.

Scotty took it from him. “It looks fake,” he said.

“Well, it’s a beta test. We’ll be among the first players.”

Scotty’s eyes lit up. “Cool! Can we play it tonight?”

“Sure, if we have time. You make sure you get all your homework done first though. Okay?”

Scotty hung his head as he placed the game disc on the kitchen table. “Alright,” he replied in a resigned voice, remembering how much homework awaited him that evening.

It was getting late when Scotty finally finished his school work and came barreling into the living room, begging his father to play the new game.

“It’s already 9:30, bud. You need to be getting to bed soon.”

“Can we at least start it?”

Paul hesitated for a moment. “Okay. But you’re not staying up past ten.”

Scotty’s excitement boiled over as he grabbed the game disc and booted up the console. He handed his father the first player controller. After a brief title screen, there were three level options listed from top to bottom. The only option that was active was “Level One”. The remaining two levels were grayed-out. In the background, behind the text, was the still image of a closed door depicted from inside a dark room with light radiating from the gaps at its edges.

“What’s this about?” Scotty asked.

“I don’t know exactly. But it’s supposed to be scary so I may be sending you to bed if it gets too bad.”

Scotty groaned. Paul confirmed the selection of level one and sat back as the game loaded. “It looks like it’s only one player so you’ll just have to watch me play for a while.”

“That’s okay.”

After a few seconds of load time, a cut scene appeared. Paul and his son watched the animated footage – a first-person perspective as the protagonist entered a door with a frosted glass window into an antiquated office environment. On the window, decaled in thick black lettering, was “Detective Charleston”. Somber ambient music droned in the background. The scene reminded Paul of the way many of the classic film noirs he’d seen over the years had begun. Right away he realized that this would be more of a puzzle solving game. An intellectual’s game.

Paul caught on to the gist of the game relatively quickly. He played as Detective Charleston, traveling all around the virtual town of Willow Creek and finding clues that could be pieced together to advance the storyline. In level one’s mystery he was introduced to the story of James Braxton, a man that worked the third shift at the Willow Creek Steel Mill. One night while having an argument with a coworker, James was pushed into the blast furnace. The perpetrator left the scene and there were no other witnesses. It was up to Paul to find all of the evidence and have the murderer convicted.

During one particularly realistic cut scene of the murder, Paul had ordered Scotty off to bed. Scotty protested at first, but soon relented. Paul finished solving the case by himself, and was pleased with his work when the police finally slapped the handcuffs on the murderer in the final cut scene of level one. The game automatically saved his progress.

Paul’s phone rang. He looked at his watch – 12:37.

“C’mon, you’re going to wake up Scotty,” he whispered as he reached for the phone. He answered it.

“Hello?”

“Thank you for setting me free.”

Paul pulled the phone away from his ear to glance at the screen – unknown caller. “Who is this?” he demanded.

“James Braxton.”

“Who?”

“James. From Willow Creek. You solved my case.”

Paul was taken aback. He glanced at the television screen which now displayed a dialogue box, beaconing: Continue to Level 2?

“Who is this really? And where did you get my number?”

“I told you – I’m James from Willow Creek. I just wanted to thank you for solving my case. Now I’m free. I only had about six weeks left before reaching the dreaded one year mark. Thank God you came along. No one else had solved my case yet. I even-”

“Where did you get my number?” Paul interrupted.

“From Chameleon, of course.”

“What the…” Paul trailed off as the phone slipped from his hand and landed with a thud on the carpet. His mouth slacked open in disbelief. He looked down at the phone. The illuminated screen stared back up at him. He could still hear the muffled voice at the other end. He grabbed the phone and shut it off as quickly as he could.

Paul’s heart was racing and drops of sweat began to form on his brow as he switched off the game console and the TV set. He was bathed in silence and in the darkness of his living room. After a long moment to gather his thoughts and to allow his pulse to settle, he quietly snuck into Scotty’s room where he watched his son sleep peacefully for several minutes. Paul was not able to fall asleep himself until nearly 4:00AM. He could not shake the uneasy feeling of the phone call. His last thought before finally drifting off into slumber was how useless he was going to be at work later that day.

– – – – –

Paul awoke in a fog at first, but then jolted upright when he saw the time on his bedside clock – 10:23. The room was washed in dim shades of gray as a heavy rain beat steadily at the roof and windows. Apparently Paul had forgotten to set his alarm amidst the chaos that followed his completion of level one. After the utterance of a few choice profanities and throwing off the bed sheets, he darted into Scotty’s room. His empty bed was neatly made. In the kitchen Paul found a note:

You were sleeping so well, I made my own breakfast. I have to catch the bus soon. Love, Scotty

Paul sighed and felt like such a failure as a father. It was in moments like these that he wished Laura were still there. He missed her in so many ways, and her penchant for organization, though annoying at times, was something he undeniably needed in his life. Paul stared into blank space as he relived in his mind the accident that took her. Once he snapped out of the vision he decided to call in sick to work. Afraid to turn on his cell phone, he made the call from his land line.

After a quick breakfast, Paul debated with himself about whether or not to continue the game. He finished off a cigarette as he rehashed the events of the previous night. As unnerving as it had been for him at the time, it now seemed like nothing more than a strange coincidence with a wrong number. A very strange coincidence, but how else could it be explained? Besides, Paul was never one to back away from a challenge. He had to finish the game.

The console booted up, the disc spun, and the title screen gave way to the dialogue box: Continue to Level 2? Paul confirmed the “Yes” selection.

The second case for Detective Charleston was that of a housing developer who had dug up human remains while leveling a lot for construction. The site of the discovery was roped off and it was the objective of the player to properly collect all of the evidence and determine who the remains belonged to and what had happened to them. Paul was meticulous in his actions and was careful to think of every possible piece of evidence. He collected samples for DNA testing. He interviewed the former landowner, the construction foreman, and the equipment operator who had made the discovery. He pored over photographs of the crime scene.

Little by little he pieced together the story of a woman that had been kidnapped and murdered. She had been carjacked and a fiery accident was staged to cover up the disappearance. She was then held captive by her abductor until he finally did away with her and buried the remains. The case was solved in its entirety when the DNA test results came back. There were two DNA profiles in the samples – one for the perpetrator, who turned out to be a known troublemaker in Willow Creek – and the other for the victim, Laura Donovan.

Paul threw the controller aside. His pulse immediately increased to the point that he could feel his neck throbbing. His ears rang and he began shaking.

“There’s….no way.” He choked on the words. Tears welled up in his eyes as he recalled the circumstances surrounding Laura’s death. The car had burned beyond recognition. The funeral was closed casket. Had something more happened to her? Had she not died at the scene as this game was suggesting?

“What are you?” he screamed at the television, his face dark red. There was no answer, just the ever-increasing throbbing of his pulse, now audible in his ears, and the prompt on the screen: Continue to Level 3?

Paul rushed over and unplugged the game system. The TV screen shone solid blue. With the exception of the pounding rain outside, silence enveloped the house. He paced around the living room, wrestling in his own mind for answers. How was this possible? There’s no way it was all a coincidence!

The wall phone rang.

The sound of the mechanical bell was jolting, threatening to split Paul’s head in two. He agonized at the thought of the caller’s identity. Most people did not have his home phone number.

“No! Please, no! Don’t do this to me!” His initial reaction was one of terror, but what if it really was Laura calling? What if he’d somehow released her from the clutches of the game just as James claimed that he’d done in his case? Ridiculous! Paul thought, She’s dead! He made his way over to the phone mounted on the kitchen wall.

“Hello?” Paul said this with great caution, the way an intimidated child would approach an angry parent.

“Paul Donovan?” It was a woman’s voice.

“Yes.”

“This is Janice Pendleton from Roosevelt Elementary School. We were just calling to check on your son, Scotty, since he was absent today.”

Paul was at a loss for words.

Janice continued, “We couldn’t reach you on your cell phone, but we found this alternate number in Scotty’s file.”

“You’re telling me he didn’t show up today?”

There was a pause of confusion before Janice delicately replied, “Yes sir, we found it odd since he rarely misses a day. So we wanted to check…” She trailed off.

“He left for school as usual this morning,” Paul said, “I mean, I was sleeping, but…” He realized that no matter what he said next it would make him sound like a negligent parent. He began to weep and tried his best to hide this from Janice, but she was able to pick up on it.

“Mr. Donovan, if you’re saying you don’t know where he is either… Do you want us to notify the authorities?”

No longer attempting to hide his sobbing he managed to blurt out, “Yes. Please!” then wept uncontrollably, dropping the phone receiver. It hit the kitchen wall with a hard thud and swung there by its cord as Paul sank to the floor.

– – – – –

Paul spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening at the police station. He answered a barrage of questions from multiple officers and detectives. He filled out endless amounts of paperwork. He pleaded with everyone he encountered to stop wasting time and find his son. The officers convinced Paul that they would do everything in their power and then persuaded him to go home in case Scotty returned. “That’s how many of these cases resolve themselves in the early stages,” one officer had told him.

The rain had subsided by the time Paul returned home, leaving wet streets and walkways. He unlocked his front door and entered the darkness. The house was silent.

“Scotty?” he called, standing in the doorway. “Are you here?” But there was no response.

Paul knew that if he were to simply sit around the house waiting he would go insane, so he booted up his computer to revisit the message board thread about the game – and to give this Chameleon guy a piece of his mind. As the computer was starting up he gazed at a framed photo on the desktop. The picture was of himself, Laura and Scotty taken at a family reunion during a much happier time in their lives. He fought tears again and then turned the photo face down on the desk. The computer was ready.

He navigated to the message board and found the thread. He noticed two things that had happened since he had last been there. First, the user Chameleon01 was no longer listed. Everywhere he had posted, his username was replaced by an icon with the text No Longer A Registered User. The other item of interest was that the tread had been locked by moderators after the argument about the mysterious game grew much more intense. As Paul was reading the heated exchange he heard the front door open. A sigh of relief washed over him and an impossibly large smile crossed his face.

“Scotty!” he yelled. He ran down the hallway. “Scotty, you’re home! Thank God! You had me so worr-”

Paul stopped dead in his tracks when he turned the corner to face the front door. Scotty had not come home. But Laura had.

– – – – –

Even though she had lost weight and appeared sickly, Laura’s embrace felt like home. It was comfortable and familiar, although it had been almost a year since Paul had experienced it. They lingered in the doorway in that position before either of them spoke.

Finally, Paul pulled back, his hands remaining on her shoulders, and asked, “Laura, is it really you? How is this possible?”

“It’s really me! You freed me! It’s so good to be home.” Paul was awestruck as they resumed the embrace. They kissed passionately for several minutes. Once the disbelief of her presence lessened, Paul led Laura over to the couch to question her about all that had happened.

“I don’t even know where to start, Laura. I was playing this video game and I-”

“I know, Paul. I know. Let me tell you everything that happened to me.”

Paul nodded and listened intently.

“I didn’t die in the car crash,” Laura began. “He took me.”

“Who took you?”

“This ‘thing’ that calls himself The Chameleon.”

Paul’s stomach sank and his brow creased as he tried to make sense of this.

“Took you where, exactly?”

“After he abducted me and burned my car, I woke up in a holding cell. There were hundreds of us in there, stacked in cages lining the walls. I don’t think the place is even in this realm. He told us that if someone solved our case in the game he would send us back to ‘the real world’. And when I was released, I passed through some sort of portal and wound up in the sewer tunnels under Hamilton Square.”

“What in the world? That sounds crazy, Laura!”

“I know it does, Paul. But you’ve got to believe me. It’s happening.”

“But what is he getting out of this? I mean, why not just make a game without the human collateral?”

“I think the human collateral is the point. It’s some kind of a sick game to him. The cages are stacked around the perimeter of a very large warehouse-like room. In the center of the room is a stage where people whose cases aren’t solved within one year are creatively…” she began crying, “…dispatched in gruesome ways.” Laura leaned over to embrace Paul again, her tears dampening his shoulder. “I saw terrible things, Paul. And my time on the stage was only two weeks away.”

The gravity of this hit Paul like a ton of bricks. He rubbed her back.

“You saved me, Paul. Thank you.”

“I have to tell you something, Laura,” he said after a contemplative pause, “Scotty is missing.”

“I know,” Laura replied somberly, “he’s in the game.”

– – – – –

Paul sat in the dark living room and stared at the prompt on the screen. Continue to Level 3? After selecting “Yes” and while waiting for the case to load, he closed his eyes and hoped beyond measure that the case he would be presented with was Scotty’s. Laura watched silently from the couch. The familiar cut scene played showing the entrance into Detective Charleston’s office. Once Paul had control of the game, he opened the last case file and began reading.

He nearly burst into tears of joy when he read about a missing ten year old boy. His objective was to find the boy and have the kidnapper brought to justice.

“It must update through the internet connection,” Paul said to Laura. “The disc is just a gateway into the game. I’ll bet if I went back to level one again it would not be James’ case, but something new – one of Chameleon’s latest victims.” As Paul was saying this, he had the sudden realization that this would never end. He would be compelled from then on to spend every waking moment of his life playing this game, lest someone experience a gruesome death that he might have prevented. His conscience would never let him put it down.

Paul refocused on the task at hand. He worked the level three case as diligently as he knew how, talking to possible witnesses in Willow Creek and collecting evidence from the playground where the boy was last seen. Soon, he was at an impasse. He did not have enough evidence to figure out what had happened and he had no further ideas on how to proceed.

“What’s that store next to the playground?” Laura asked.

“I think it’s like a convenience store,” Paul replied.

“Can you go talk to them? Maybe there’s a security camera or something.”

“Brilliant!” Paul navigated Detective Charleston into the store and spoke with the manager. Moments later he was able to obtain the security camera footage from the time of the disappearance which showed the boy being stuffed into a car with a clear license number. Back at his office Detective Charleston ran the plate number and located the kidnapper. After the handcuffing scene, Paul was treated to a congratulatory message for having solved the case in level 3.

And they waited.

The house remained quiet, and it did not take long for Paul to become frustrated. He paced nervously in the living room.

“Where is he? I solved his case.”

“Give it more time, Paul. Remember, it took me several hours to make it back here after being released.”

Paul nodded, but it did not calm him. He stepped out onto the front porch for another cigarette and to watch for a boy to come running toward him in the distance. When this did not happen, he darted out into the middle of the front yard, gazed out into the darkness with his arms outstretched and yelled, “Give me my son back! Take me instead! You hear me? You come take me instead!”

Dogs barked in the distance. Paul collapsed onto the lawn. When he finally looked up, he saw Scotty moving toward him. He wasn’t running, but walking slowly. He was reaching up with his left hand as if being led by a much taller adult, but Paul did not see anyone walking next to him. As Scotty approached, Paul could barely make out the vague outline of a tall cloaked figure holding Scotty’s hand.

In a moment, Scotty was in Paul’s arms. The outlined figure stood over them. It was not translucent, but entirely solid, yet it took on the perfect semblance of the surroundings behind it. If Paul were to reach out and touch it, his hand would not pass through it, but meet resistance as real as any other body. It stood motionless and silent – and waited.

Laura burst from the front door and off the porch into the yard.

“Scotty!” she called to him.

“Momma?”

“It’s me, baby! It’s really me!”

As they hugged and wept together, Paul turned his attention toward the nearly indiscernible cloaked figure. It was at least eight feet tall by his best estimation. Paul was still kneeling when the figure’s cloak parted at the bottom, revealing a blackness that could only be rivaled by the deepest, darkest cave. The entity stepped forward and absorbed Paul. The edges of the cloak reunited and all was silent.

“No!” Laura’s scream was drawn out and ended with hysterical wailing as she realized that only she and Scotty remained in the front yard.

– – – – –

Somewhere in an inaccessible nether world Paul slowly awoke in his fourth-storey cage. He heard the wailing of all the other occupants in their cells, though he could not see them. On the wall in his small dark cage was a placard with two dates written on it. The first was the date of his imprisonment, and the second was the date exactly one year from then. Suddenly there was commotion below as a slightly overweight man was led by the cloaked figure onto the spot-lit stage in the center of the arena below. The man was manacled to a post with a sinister-looking mechanical device positioned behind him. Paul had already closed his eyes by the time the machine was started up. He did not want to see what it was or what was going to happen to the man. However, the screams he heard would never leave his mind.

– – – – –

Seven hundred fifty miles away from Paul Donovan’s earthly home, a middle-aged man known in certain internet gaming circles as 00Raven00 opened a padded envelope that had been sitting on his kitchen counter for several days. He inserted the plain disc into his gaming system and watched the opening sequence. Once he had control of the game he opened the file folder on Detective Charleston’s desk. Apparently a man named Paul had been pushed in front of a subway train by another person who then fled the station, according to witness statements in the file.

Being primarily an action-based gamer 00Raven00’s patience wore thin quickly, and he spent only fifteen minutes exploring for clues before giving up.

“Psssshh. This isn’t even scary,” he declared, and switched the system off.

Credit: moonlit_cove

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 9.2/10 (338 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

Creepypasta Contest: Gaming Pasta Challenge [Entries Closed, Winners Announced]

April 19, 2016 at 12:00 AM

Thanks for all of your entries! Here are our top three:

1. Willow Creek (Congrats to moonlit_cove on your flask!)
2. The Shame
3. Razor Games

Some entries were deemed very close-but-no-cigar and as such will be posted to Crappypasta for further refinement. It’s our hope that they will be reworked enough to eventually end up on the main site! Please keep an eye on the Crappypasta Round-Up category if you are interested in giving feedback to the stories in question, or simply check in with Crappypasta regularly.

As mentioned in the April Discussion post, this month we are having a writing contest!

I’m going to just go ahead and copy/paste what I wrote before:

If you’ve been active in the creepypasta community for a decent amount of time, it’s highly likely that you’ve encountered gaming pasta. Such stories are often referred to as “Haunted Cartridge” pastas due to how many of them involve protagonists who, for some reason, are willing to pay for obviously counterfeit versions of old NES games and then have to deal with the consequences of whatever weird angry gaming spirits they’ve invited into their console of choice.

The genre gets a (largely deserved, let’s be honest) bad rap mostly due to how many gaming pastas are nothing more than retellings of the original, more novel haunted game stories. For example: while Pokemon Black was novel at first and did creep some people out, the countless “Pokemon Blood Orange” or “Pokemon Burnt Sienna” spin-offs that sprung from its loins got really tiresome, really fast. Likewise with the “Ben Drowned” rip-offs – people started churning out variants that essentially were just mad libs, replacing just the game and Ben’s name. There’s really no faster way to kill a creepypasta subgenre than overloading readers with a glut of indiscernable copycat stories – even when a decent and/or original entry appears, readers seem to be too jaded from the ” crappypasta overload to give anything in the genre a chance.

With all that said, I do believe there is hope for gaming pasta. Even if it doesn’t receive many additions, I do retain the Haunted Games tag for a reason – there are those of you out there who truly do enjoy your creepy video game stories, and when they’re done well, I fully agree that they can be enjoyable.

So this month, I have a challenge for all you writers out there: write and submit a good gaming pasta.

From April 19th until May 5th, I will open up a special submission form where people can submit gaming pastas only; anything unrelated that gets sent in via this form will be deleted. The moderation team and I will read through all of the submissions and pick three winners that we feel best accomplished the goal of writing a good gaming pasta. The top three submissions will have their story hosted here, of course, and the top-ranked eligible author will also receive a Legend of Drink Gaming Cartridge Flask:

The Legend of Drink

  • The mods and I will be reading and discussing the submissions amongst ourselves as time allows. Please allow up to a week after contest submissions close for us to choose our winners.
  • Only ONE winner will receive the flask. In order to receive the flask, you must have a shipping address in the US/Canada and be 18 years of age or older. If this doesn’t apply to you but you still wish to submit a story to the contest, that’s fine, just know that you won’t be eligible for the physical prize – it will be given to the next placed author that fulfills the eligibility requirements. However, your story will still be eligible to be declared the overall winner of the contest.
  • TO BE CLEAR: DO NOT SUBMIT YOUR CONTEST ENTRY VIA THE NORMAL SUBMISSION FORM. USE THE FORM ATTACHED TO THIS POST. Submitting your story to the wrong form is likely to result in your story not being read until after the contest is over, as it won’t go into the priority contest queue.
  • Just because I know some of you will read that last sentence and think you have a clever plan to get your non-contest story read quickly: if you submit a non-contest story using this form, it will just be deleted. Don’t try to game the system, it won’t work.

The form is attached to this post under a cut and can be accessed by clicking here (or simply by clicking the post title). Submissions for this contest are now closed! Thank you to everyone who participated.

I look forward to seeing what you guys can produce!

*There is an affiliate code present in the link to the flask on Amazon. This means that if you buy anything on Amazon after using that link, the site will get a small kickback – which goes back into the pot to fund more giveaways like this one. If you use our affiliate link, thank you!

LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

Him

June 25, 2015 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.0/10 (514 votes cast)

I’ve kept this story from most people I know, as the ones I have told have deemed me absolutely insane. I’m seeking refuge here because most of you have seemed to have similar issues.

This happened about 2 years ago.

My mother died when I was 5 years old. She had been a frequent drug abuser and alcoholic. She verbally and physically abused my father, who was about as feminine and frail as a man could be. After 7 years of a broken relationship and constant abuse, she finally passed. My dad then came out to the public as a victim of abuse, and sought group therapy – which he took very well. After only a year and a half of therapy, my father was back on his feet, and to be honest (despite cliché) was the best parent I could’ve dreamt of. He raised me to be someone that none of my friends could be. He fulfilled his role as a father, and still maintained the motherly objective, nurturing me in that field as well. He was my go-to for breakups, bullies, confidence issues. My father was my role-model and my best friend.

The ‘incident’, as my father and I refer to it as, happened 3 years ago on the 6th of July 2012.

I was seventeen at the time, and went through a critical gaming phase which still pops up every now and again (I still love smashing n00bs on calladoots). I lay awake at 12midnight that night, and lay playing Angry Birds on my Samsung Galaxy S3 – I’m a nerd, I know – when the door to my room swung open.*

My father and I lived in a small, 2 bedroom apartment, which was more than enough to house the both of us. We kept up rent and sustained nutrition with my dad’s reasonable paying job, and went about our lives very happily. I had saved up enough money doing small jobs to afford a reasonable laptop and a desk to accompany it. My dad, equipped with the laptop his job provided for him, would often join me in a game of Age of Empires II, which we would spend hours on together. In the time that we weren’t playing (often 2 – 5am) I would sit alone and drink gallons of coffee, and of course, being a teenager, I never took my mugs to the kitchen.

*Through the door came, of course, my father. I quickly hid my phone and pretended to be asleep. He walked over to my desk, clumsily grabbed the few mugs, and slugged out of there. I sighed with relief and went on with my game for a few hours before getting hungry (yeah: I was playing temple run too). I quietly slipped out of my room, careful not to wake my resting father and moved along to the kitchen. The room was tremendously cold. I felt a horrible, sluggish feeling in my stomach. All of the windows to our apartment were wide open. This was a massive abnormality, not only was it the middle of winter, but the windows were hardly ever open any way. I set the kettle on and placed my hotdog in the microwave. Arms wrapped round my chest, I ninjad over to the windows and closed them all. I turned to get my food, when I noticed Him.

He stood at least 7 feet tall. His skin was as white as a sheet, and his figure was bony and malnourished. He was naked, yet, apart from his bodily shape, he resembled anything but a living creature. His head was tilted back, although his eyes were fixed upon me. They stood out, even in the dark as blood red. He held them as wide as I’ve ever seen a man open his eyes. He pinched his mouth to the bottom of his face, only seeming to elongate it. He showed no body language. His arms hung by his sides and he simply stared at me with this shocked (well… I assume it was shock) face.

We locked eyes for what seemed like forever before he turned and strode out the door – which I had personally locked – which stood wide open. I didn’t think much, letting the adrenaline drive me. I ran for the door, closing and locking it before heading back to the window to see if he would exit the building (we lived on the third floor).

Sure enough, there he was.

He leaped out of the apartment complex and strode over the street and simply hopped over the neighbor’s wall – a three meter tall wall. He gave nothing a second though, soon disappearing behind the houses and supposedly off into the night.

I burst through my father’s door and rampantly woke him. He awoke groggily, but he was quickly snapped ‘sober’ by my description of the events. No sleep was had that night. We sat talking about the night’s events until 9 when my dad had to be off for work.

“Did you lock the door?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“YES.”

We could come up with no logical way this man could’ve entered the apartment. I decided to come up with an idea through trial and error.

“Okay, okay. What did you do after you got the dishes from my room?”

“What?”

I was obviously frustrated.

“You know! Around twelve you came in and got my coffee mugs!”

“I fell asleep at 10:30.”

My stomach fell to my feet and my heart rose to my throat. Nothing was said. We simply looked at each other. That man. That THING had been in our house since at least 11. We closed the case from there. Obviously we were dealing with something way out of our league. We decided not to tell the police, and tried living normally from then on.

It worked.

Despite the occasional nightmare, nothing changed. I finished high school, started college, and now I’m living by myself a whole country away from my father – this all took place in Scotland, I now live in Ireland. Everything was completely fine until a few hours ago. My girlfriend called me about a strange man she encountered in her house. After frantically questioning her on whether she was alright or not, she finally decided to come over. When she arrived, she told me about the man that was in her apartment. He matched the description of Him perfectly.

I don’t know what’s going on, my girlfriend is asleep on my couch, and honestly, I really don’t know how to deal with anything.

I’m hoping one of you do.

Update 1

So it’s been a day and my puzzle is already getting thousands more tiny pieces which I need to fit together. Before I continue, I’d like to note that I really appreciate the support coming through from the viewer’s side. My girlfriend is in an absolute state, yet somehow reading through some of the comments was enough to cheer her up, albeit a little bit.

Alright – back to business.

My girlfriend lay asleep for a few hours last night before being woken by terrible nightmares of Him. She was covered in a cold sweat and her heart rate flew for about 60 seconds before coming to a rest. Once she had finally calmed down, I explained what happened the night of ‘The Incident’. While I could literally see and feel the terror flowing through her, she nodded shakily and managed a tiny, “A-alright. What are we gonna do about it?”

We sat silent on my couch for a good ten minutes before my phone rang.
Dad: “Hello?” Me: “Dad?” Dad: “Oh my god. Henry, are you alright?”
His voice was speedy and discontent, as if he was focusing on something else completely.
Me: “Yeah. I guess you could say that…” Dad: “Well, I know this might dig up a body we decided to keep buried a long time ago. But do you remember ‘The Incident?’”
There was a long pause. I knew EXACTLY what had happened.
Me: “Are you sure you saw him?” Dad: “He matched every detail.”
Another pause.
Me: “Winter saw him too.” Dad: “Oh my god…”

My father went on to describe how the creature wasn’t as passive as I had described it. It seemed to approach him with the same long strides I saw that night, only more hesitant, before turning and dancing through the door again.

Me: “We’ve gotta meet up. Come to my apartment tomorrow. You remember where it is, right?” Dad: “Of course I do. I’ll be there ASAP.”

He hung up. Questions bounced throughout my head. Questions I still cannot answer. It’s about 10am here right now. If my father doesn’t take his time, he should arrive at around 7pm. Right now, on the other hand. I need to describe exactly what happened to Winter – I’ll present it first person so it’s slightly easier to follow.

“ The night was off to the same old boring routine. I sat on the couch and surfed the internet like any other night. The apartment was dark, as usual, and the TV was on in the background as usual. My cat, Mocking Bird, sat on my lap, and occasionally got up for a stroll. Nothing was out of the ordinary. It was around midnight that I got hungry.

I got up, put the TV off, and decided I would be off to bed after I got a snack. Mocking Bird left my lap and lay in his bed which was placed in the corner of the living room. I went round to the kitchen and started making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The kitchen was lit only by the light of the stove situated in the corner above my head, barely producing enough light to see beyond the counter, let alone throughout the apartment. After sloppily and tiredly finishing my midnight meal, I made my way to the bedroom. I could hear Mocking Bird playing with his bell in the living room as I passed. This was the comforting sound I heard every night before bed, it never failed to calm me down, even in the harshest of moods. I stood for a moment or two, just listening, smiling.

I opened the door to my bedroom and was greeted by a chilling wind and a disgusting smell. Oh my god. Had the cat gotten hold of another mouse and left it under my bed? My first move was for the windows which stood wide open. Closing them tightly, I dismissed the fact that they were open, blaming it on the strong draft and my negligence to check their complete sealing. Already annoyed, I made my way to the bed. Mocking Bird would often bring in his huntings from the nearby alleyway in and store them beneath my bed, the smell wasn’t something new. The sight however…
I reached out and ripped the carcass from underneath my bed. Mocking Bird’s dead body, mangled and mauled flew out and landed about a foot in front of me. The light coming in from the nearby street lamps was enough to illuminate the corpse. The first thing I noticed was that he no longer had his collar on. I lived alone with Mocking Bird. He was my only companion on the cold nights I couldn’t make it to Henry’s. Shortly after I got him, I bought a collar that would match my bracelet which I wear everywhere – a gift from my deceased mother. I sobbed at Mocking Bird’s side, still not pondering who or what could’ve done this.

When I heard the jingling of Mocking Bird’s bell at my bedroom door. There He stood, almost perfectly in line with the door.

I suppose it was because of adrenalin, but it almost appeared as my general field of view increased. I got him entirely in my sights. He stood slightly ajar and leaned over, keeping his head tilted backward, and his eyes locked on me. He held his posture like a mannequin frozen behind a store window – except for the gentle jingle of Mocking Bird’s bells in his left hand.

He held 2 things other that the bells. Along with them, was Mocking Bird’s collar. My tears only ran faster at this sight. This was enough for me to confirm he was the one who killed Mocking Bird. Feelings of dread, anger and sorrow flooded my body simultaneously, rendering me motionless. The other item He held was a plate, part of a dining set Henry got me for my birthday.

He strode toward me.

My natural reaction was to fall backwards and scurry, only to meet a wall blocking the way. As he reached a certain distance, suddenly, his entire body became animated, as if the gravity was withdrawn from him. He came within inches of my face, but never touched it, staying within range for me to see into his eyes.

The majority was a deep red. Yet in the centre of each eye, a black dot, about the size of the rear of a matchstick, stood idly. They seemed to lead on, as if pure space stood behind them. He then turned and ‘walked’ over to the door, once again turning when he reached it, staring in my general direction. After a moment of his staring, he leaned forward and locked eyes with me, releasing a gut wrenching yell, which sounded like a symphony of detuned harps and bells, accompanied by the screeches of burning men. He then backed up and strode off out my front door, which I distinctively remember shutting and locking (as I do every night), as if he was never there. “
Right.

So.

We have some similarities.

-The ridiculous china theft, still unexplained. -His ability to hide in plain sight. -The open windows. -And his actions which seem to have no ultimate goal.
One thing that is odd, however, is the fact that he acted aggressively (the yelling; slaughter of Mocking Bird) is new. He barely even came close to me in my encounter. Has he grown aggressive over the few years that have passed? Or is this a new being all together?

I’m ridiculously confused, riddled with questions, and need answers now.

Please. If anyone has an idea.

Help.

Update 2

My father arrived tired. I understand that he had been diving for more than 8 hours straight, but he seemed physically fatigued. His movements were slurred and slow. He kept repeating the phrase, “I’m tired. I’m tired.” After a while, I started getting annoyed. I led him to my bed and let him lay down while I took down what he had experienced.

**Again, I’ve used first person to tell his story**

“ Last year some really loud neighbors moved in. Really loud as in ‘blast Job For A Cowboy loud’. I’d had consistent issues since they moved in, even calling the police at one point (I’m a 50 year old man, cut me some slack). I remember lying awake sometimes until the young hours of the morning before calling the police.

This one night was particularly quiet. Almost eerily so. I can’t explain it, but there was just this feeling that something wasn’t right. I rose from my bed and entered your old room, then the bathroom, kitchen and generally inspected the living area to which the kitchen was attached. Nothing. Upon further inspection, though, I found that the two pillows you had left behind had vanished.

I shrugged everything off. Then around 12 o’clock, after reading a bit, I was off to bed. I lay down and closed my eyes. Merely seconds later, I was rudely awoken by a LOUD noise in my ears. I almost fell out of bed. It sounded like it was right next to me. I opened my eyes and quickly jumped from my bed, scrambling to the corner of the room. I scanned the area carefully.

Groggy at first, my eyes didn’t pick much up, but when they were clear, I noticed something that made my stomach turn.

The windows and my bedroom door were wide open. I reached over and retrieved any object I could think to use as a weapon, which ended up being a shoe – wow. I got up and walked toward the window, keeping my eyes locked on the door. It was around this time that I realized the sound was coming from next door. After securing the windows I thought for a moment. Rage built inside of me. I threw the shoe to the ground, and stormed out of my apartment, turning the lights on and closing the door behind me.

I banged furiously on the neighbor’s door. I had really had enough of this ridiculous bullshit. I waited for what seemed like forever, and when I was finally answered, it was by a half-asleep junkie. The apartment was dark and no sound was playing. I didn’t even say anything; I just looked at him in shock.

‘What do you want, old man?’

I apologized and headed back to my room.

My heart was racing at this point, and I was unsure of what to do. Heading back into my apartment, I was greeted by a sight that shook me like no other event that night. The lights were off and the windows were open. I walked into the apartment and sealed all of the windows. This was around the time I remembered ‘The Incident’. I sat on the couch, thinking for a few minutes, my head in my hands. Finally I decided to call you. I headed for my cell phone in my room and rang your number up.

‘Sorry. But the person you are trying to call does not exist.’

What?

This was my son’s phone number. There is no way in hell I could forget that. I turned to try the landline, when I saw Him. He stood by the kitchen, facing me. His eyes were almost glowing. We stared at each other for almost 3 minutes, when I looked away to hide. I stopped when I noticed him move.

He lunged in my direction, those same strides you described to me that night. As he reached the doorway, he stopped, staring again. I fell backwards, scrambling to find my shoe, which I had left in the living room. He leaned in closer and he froze completely. He released a scream which is still engraved in my mind. It was the sound of a million families losing their loved ones; the sound of an orchestra of darkness.

He finished screaming and then turned, striding off out my door.

Then I called you. “

Again we have the similarities.

He seems to just move as if he’s a ghost. He moves around people as if he isn’t even there. He stole things again, although it wasn’t plates or mugs. I’m growing increasingly suspicious of what he wants. Some people have suggested it may be the spirit of my deceased mother? Others suggest it may be some demon that just happens to follow me around.

No matter what he is: he’s proven that he has hostile intentions, and I do not plan on standing idly for much longer.

—————————————————-*The Following is by Winter*————————————————

Henry sat typing his dad’s story as his dad lay on his bed wheezing softly. At the time he didn’t think it was serious, after all he’d been driving for almost 8 hours straight and he is an older dude. All that changed when Mark (Henry’s dad) started clutching his chest and rolled off the bed.

Henry’s dad had had a heart attack.

It was at this point that I walked into the bedroom.

“Henry?”

“Winter, I-it’s dad, he’s had a stroke or something. Call an ambulance and bring the laptop!”

15 minutes later, the ambulance arrived. We hopped in Henry’s car and followed the ambulance to the hospital. The car ride had us discuss his dad for a bit. He kept mentioning ‘The Incident’ and ‘The Mugs’. Arriving at the hospital, we sat outside Mark’s room for hours, waiting in complete silence. Henry just stared at the wall. Not saying anything. I’m worried.

A few minutes ago the doctors let us in, one introduced himself as doctor Allen and explained that Mark’s condition doesn’t look good. “He’s in God’s hands now” he said as he left. Henry’s just sitting next to his Dad, he’s in complete despair. He blames everything on himself.

Henry’s role model… his hero is on his way to death

Final Update
This is my final update to this story.

I sat by the bed of my dying father, clutching his hand and praying that whatever might be dictating his death might have mercy. He was barely in his 50’s. He was my lasting role model; my best friend. All I could do is sit idly and watch as the most important person in my life dwindled away into nothing. The steady beeping of the cardiac monitor brought my sobbing to a halt. Maybe if I held onto his hand for long enough he wouldn’t die. Maybe if I hoped hard enough he wouldn’t die.

The realization that there was nothing I could do came along with the decrease in speed of the beeping. My sobbing turned into crying and my holding squeezing. Soon I was yelling for my dad not to leave me. My girlfriend was out getting snacks at this point. She’s so amazing. Always there for me in the worst of times. The doctors came in and asked me to leave, but I couldn’t; I had to be present whilst my father, the father that raised me single handedly, slipped away from life. I was standing at this point, yelling over at my father. My phone rang, but I ignored it. I hunched over my father’s body as the Cardiac Monitor flat lined.

He was gone.

I stormed out of the hospital room and sat on the benches. I curled up in the fetal position and continued crying. I blamed Him. I blamed that monster for the loss of my dad. I blamed him for giving my dad a heart attack. I blamed him for – the nurse came out with my phone, she said it wouldn’t stop ringing. I looked at the number. It was Winter. I answered.

“Hello?”

“Henry! I’m stuck in a car accident right outside your apartment! The car’s on fire and I can’t get out! My phone can’t reach the hospital, I don’t know why. Please! Send help!”

My stomach dropped. I informed the nurse and an ambulance quickly set off to her rescue. Rushing out toward the scene, I managed to slam my foot into the car’s window, breaking it open and enabling me to unlock and open the door. I pulled my singed girlfriend from the fire. She was coughing hysterically, but trying to say something. All I could make out was, “I love you” “It’s not your fault”. I shed no tears this time. The medics carried her onto a stretcher and into the ambulance. They took me along with to the hospital, where she died on arrival.

I got in my car outside and started driving. At first, I was unsure of where I was driving to, but it soon became apparent. I started the drive to my father’s apartment. My sorrow had been replaced with rage. My mind was set on finding out exactly what this thing was, and what it wanted. I made the eight hour drive with my eyes on the road. I didn’t budge from my objective.

I arrived soon after dark. I sat in the car and stared at the apartment complex. Memories flooded into my mind. Memories of Age of Empires with my father, staying up late, watching TV, just talking. My first girlfriend popped back into my head. Her name was Lizzy. I was twelve. We planned exactly where to meet so we could hug every day. We would sit around the back of the bathrooms and play Pokémon. Then one day she left me for my best friend Pete. Fuckin’ Lizzy. I remembered angrily storming into my room and sitting on my bed, folding my arms and staring at the ground, frowning. My dad walked in and sat beside me, sighing deeply, “Girls?” He went on to tell me his stories of girlfriends and how he got by without caving. He always made me feel better.

I sat for at least an hour just thinking of all these past events when I finally got up and entered the apartment complex. The front door wasn’t locked, it never was. I trod through the lounge and up the stairs, still remembering where every creek was. I walked down the hall until I arrived at number 14: my old apartment. The door was unlocked. I chuckled to myself. My dad was always reckless when it came to this. I quickly wiped the smile from my face and entered the apartment. I looked around and to my shock…

… The apartment was in ruins. Couches were turned, bedding was thrown about the floor, the fridge lay on the floor, the blinds were shredded, lamps lay on the ground, and even the ceiling light was broken from its position. I stared at the wreckage for a few seconds. There was no way this could’ve happened to my childhood home. I walked into my old room. It was spotless. Not because things weren’t thrown around, but because there was nothing to throw around. All of the things I left behind were gone. My shock grew greater and I quickly fell out of the room to check my father’s. Everything was a mess. The bed sheets were torn and lay on the floor, the bedside cupboard door was broken off and looked like it had been used to break through the window. I turned and re-entered the main area of the apartment.

I cried. I cried harder than when my father died. I cried harder than when Winter died. I cried harder than when I broke my leg for the first time. I curled up and cried on the floor like a five year old who can’t find their mum in the supermarket. I cried for maybe half an hour before I was reduced to sobbing. Then I heard something. I rose to my feet and listened. *scratch scratch. scratch scratch* I looked around for the source of the scratching and moved toward the kitchen. The scratching got louder, and then I realized it was coming from the wall. I listened along the wall until the scratching became it’s loudest. I thought about what I *could* do and made my decision. I moved back and thrust my foot through the wall. It came to pieces. I continued kicking and tearing at the door until I had made enough room to fit into what lay behind it. After doing so, I got my phone from my pocket and lit the area ahead of me as best I could. I couldn’t make out what was there at first, but I soon realized, and I can’t even explain what I felt.

In the corner of the small room stood a table. A small, wooden table. Atop it was a propped up photograph of me from when I was about 15 years old. Below the table, Was a large stained white cardboard sheet, on which my name was scribbled. Around the corner, all the pictures I had ever taken of myself, whether it be solo or with my friends, was pasted on the walls. I began crying again. In another corner of the room, another picture of my face was stuck to the wall. Around it, red lines were drawn to my closest friends, college mates, my girlfriend and of course, my father. 3 faces were crossed out, including my friend John, who committed suicide the year before, my girlfriend and my father. I couldn’t bear looking at this for very long and soon turned to see a small basket. I looked in the basket to find toys and other things I thought had just gone missing over time. Things that were small enough to have just lost.

I ran out of the room and fell to my knees, trying to hold back whatever food was trying to come out of my stomach, when the door opened. I looked up, and there he was. He stood exactly the same way I had first seen him.

He stood at least 7 feet tall. His skin was as white as a sheet, and his figure was bony and malnourished. He was naked, yet, apart from his bodily shape, he resembled anything but a living creature. His head was tilted back, although his eyes were fixed upon me. They stood out, even in the dark as blood red. He held them as wide as I’ve ever seen a man open his eyes. He pinched his mouth to the bottom of his face, only seeming to elongate it. He showed no body language. His arms hung by his sides and he simply stared at me with this shocked (well… I assume it was shock) face.

He turned to walk when I stood up and yelled at him. Words flowed from my mouth, I can’t even remember what I said. He stopped for a few seconds and then ran off, with those long, animated strides. I fell to my knees once more. Shortly after, I went down to my car and retrieved my laptop, bringing it upstairs.

I’m typing this message now, to anyone who may receive it. I’ve tied my bed sheets into a noose and soon I’ll be away from everything. No-one else has to die. One last life for the salvation of many.

Thank you all for accompanying me throughout thisjhaudhbhalushd

asdhkfluhubekbvsj—-ashieb

behind you

Credit To – Reddit: He_Coontbuster

This story was originally posted on /nosleep/ – it has been reposted here with explicit permission from the OP. You can see the original posts here, here, here and here if you so desire.

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.0/10 (514 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

The Shredder Monkey – Part 1

June 17, 2015 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.7/10 (216 votes cast)

This is Part One of a three-part series. The next two installments will be posted over the next couple of days; alternatively, you can track The Shredder Monkey Series tag for new updates.

E-mail from: Ian Koros, Contributor, Scientific Fringe Magazine
To: Michael Wyzeki, Editor-in-Chief

Mike,

Several weeks ago, I was presented with a bizarre account I believe you’ll find worthwhile.

A friend of mine first found it. You know those spam e-mails, the ones that sometimes make their way into your inbox? For erectile dysfunction pills, diet supplements, et cetera? Anyways, this friend of mine clicked on the link attached to one of those by accident.

But instead of an advertisement for an erectile dysfunction pill or diet supplement, this one lead to a personal blog kept by a young woman. A girl named Ariana Gomez, apparently. I’ve tried to find this Ariana Gomez on Facebook and Instagram, but so far have had no luck.

My friend forwarded it to me, and I printed out the blog entries. It was a good thing I did, because the link no longer works. I got an error message the second time I clicked on it. And a pretty nasty virus, I should add.
Neither of us could find the picture of the monkey that Ariana Gomez refers to.

Below is the account in its entirety, which I retyped word-for-word from my printout. As to authenticity, you are free to judge for yourself.

Sincerely,
– Ian

*****

Blog entry: September 1st, 2014

Okay. Hi. I’m the girl who put up the picture of the stuffed monkey. You know the one. Squat, squarish torso. Long thin arms; skinny little legs that would never support that bulky, squarish body. Round head with two little ears on top. Purple, with puke-green details and a big pink circle on what’s supposed to be its belly. Red eyes and nose, no mouth. Not sure what’s up with the mouth.

Here’s how it is: this monkey is haunting me. This little cartoon character – the Shredder Monkey, he’s called – has appeared in my life on two completely different incidents, yet has absolutely no presence in pop culture. And then there was that singularly disturbing incident at work with the old man with dementia, and what he said …

Anyways. Lemme start at the beginning.

It was fourteen years ago. I was eight. My aunt and uncle had a timeshare by Lake Tahoe. Every summer, my whole extended family would drive out there for a couple weeks to swim, water ski, barbecue – you know, escape the commute and the suburbs, fun in the sun.

Since other people used the house as well, my dad liked getting an extra day off work and driving out early, just to make sure the place was livable – nothing broken or rotting, no beer bottles or used condoms or dead hookers lying around.

That year, to ease my middle-of-summer boredom, I decided to tag along with him.

So we took off in my dad’s Civic for the eight-hour drive, through an early-summer storm. At some point, I fell asleep in the back seat, lulled by the sound of rain against the window. When I woke up, we were parked outside of a dilapidated gas station.

I opened the door and climbed out. I didn’t recognize the area at all. The rain had stopped; it was warm, and the sky was bright blue and cloudless. The gas station had four pumps and one tiny shack that functioned as a snack shop. There was nothing but fields of tall, yellow grass on all sides.

The snack shop (or whatever it was) looked as though it had been standing since World War II. It was a little place, with walls of rusted sheet metal and one wood and mesh door. No windows. Just three blackened, indecipherable neon signs. My dad stood outside the car, pumping gas. He gave me five dollars to buy food.

The inside of the sheet metal shop was scarcely in better condition than the outside. The fluorescent lights were dim, and dust hung in the air. The white-tile floor was stained and peeling. Two old refrigerators rested against the back wall, stocked with soda and beer. A variety of cigarettes and tins of chewing tobacco were displayed behind the front counter. And there were several shelves dedicated to snack food. Candy, chips, beef jerky, plus more substantial stuff – cans of beans, string cheese (I stayed away), tuna, condensed milk, cereal. All coated in a healthy cover of dust.

I looked around, and realized that I didn’t recognize any of the brands.

A couple examples: CHALK chocolate (at least, I assumed it was chocolate). Something resembling a Snickers bar in a pastel purple wrapper with bright blue lettering. I had no idea what was in it, because the nutrition facts and description of the product were all written in a strange language that resembled Chinese characters mixed with Egyptian Hieroglyphs.
Then, there was some brownish substance in long, skinny plastic packaging. I guessed you tore open one end and squeezed the contents into your mouth, sort of like go-gurt. I didn’t know for sure, however, because the label was in another bizarre written language. Though not the same one. The CHALK characters featured straight lines and triangles, while this writing was squiggly.

Okay.

A little freaked out, I was about to leave. Then I glanced at the cereal display, and noticed one box had English writing on it. SHREDDER SHOCKS. The box was yellow, and the words were red comic-sans. Kid’s cereal. The picture on the front was of a bowl filled with milk and what looked like shredded wheat squares and pastel marshmallows. The marshmallows were in the shape of purple monkeys. On the back were the obligatory kids’ cereal box games, hosted by a large picture of a cartoon monkey in a bamboo (huh?) tree.

You guessed it. Purple, with puke-green paws and circles around its red eyes, big pink circle on its belly. Square body, long arms, proportionately-incorrect legs. No mouth.

There was a circle-shaped maze, and text telling you to “help the shredder monkey find his way to the oasis.” At the upper right corner of the box, the other end of the maze, was a picture of a little cartoon pond, complete with happy-looking fish poking their heads out. Also, there was a word search, with words like “monkey,” “jungle,” “adventure”… you can guess at the rest.

As I examined the colorful box of cereal, I heard a shuffling that could have been footsteps in the next aisle over. Thinking it was my dad, I went to look. But no one was there. Then, there was a “whoosh” and a SLAM!

The mesh door was swinging. There didn’t appear to be anyone behind it, and I was alone. Weird. The wind, I guessed. I took it as a hint that I needed to get out of there as soon as possible.

I was hungry, and extremely untrusting of the inexplicably-labeled foodstuffs I’d seen, so I decided to take my chance with the Shredder Shocks. I grabbed the box, went up to the counter, and paid the cashier. I don’t exactly remember what the guy looked like. I think the cash register he used was a manual one. I exited the store with my snack, climbed back in the car, and a minute later my dad and I were back on the road to Tahoe.

The cereal was pretty good. Kinda like Lucky Charms and Shredded Wheat Thins mixed together. I ate handfuls until I was bored of it, then amused myself with the games on the back. Which were uncharacteristically hard.

I mean, you guys all remember the word searches and mazes on the back of cereal when you were a kid. They’re made for kindergarteners. Kindergarteners with IQ’s approaching two digits. But this maze I couldn’t solve. I must have tried for half an hour. It was weird; I could see the entrance, I could see the exit. There was a clear path leading to and from each, but the paths didn’t connect.

And the word search was utterly impossible. I decided it must be a misprint. I tried to work it out on a blank sheet of paper in the back of the Goosebumps book I was reading, but all I found was the same patterns of letters, repeated over and over again.

GARD
NWODR
EH

Confused and frustrated, I tossed the box and my book aside and curled up for a nap. When I awoke, we were in Tahoe. At some point while I was asleep, the blue sky had clouded over. Distracted by the bustle of moving stuff through the puddles into the house, cleaning up, and picking out my room, I forgot all about the cereal box. Nor did I think about it at all once my mom and my brother Jose and my cousins showed up, nor while we were swimming or barbecuing or camping. And, two weeks later, when we drove home, the box was no longer in my dad’s car.

On the way home, we didn’t pass the strange, dilapidated gas station.

Fast forward nine years.

It’s 2009, I’m seventeen. A senior in high school. I’m at a toy store in the mall, looking for a first birthday present for my cousin’s baby.

As any parent (or aunt or older sister) knows, walking through the stuffed animal aisle in of a chain toy store is a little bit like walking through Disneyland while tripping on acid. Lots of colors, lots of cute, a little terrifying. I was between Pokemon and Pillow Pets when I saw it fall and land right in my path.

It was a stuffed monkey. A purple and pink and green stuffed monkey, with a bulky square body and dangly little legs. Red eyes, red nose, no mouth.

I picked the little guy up. I had no idea where he’d fallen from, and I couldn’t find any others that looked like him. Confused, I flagged down an employee.

“That’s strange,” she said. “I’ve never this stuffed animal before. I don’t think he’s one of the ones we carry, maybe some kid left him behind.”

She ended up letting me have him for free. I don’t know how she would have charged me otherwise; he didn’t have any tags. So I took the stuffed monkey home and kept him in my room. The Shredder Monkey, it had to be. The same monkey as on that bizarre box of cereal I’d bought from that bizarre gas station nine years before. That bizarre cereal I’d never found again.

I’d looked for Shredder Shocks every week at the local Vons, where I shopped with my mom. They never had it in stock, and none of the clerks I asked had ever heard of the product. And when I Google’d Shredder Shocks, I came up with nothing but dune buggies, RC cars, and some episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

No big loss. The cereal hadn’t been that good. I’d looked for some of the other products I’d seen at that convenience store as well, and found similarly useless results. I’d come to assume that dilapidated gas station only sold poorly-made local merchandise, or brands that had been discontinued.

But, all of a sudden, the Shredder Monkey was back in my life.

I wasn’t scared of it, at least not yet. I showed the stuffed monkey to some of my friends, and then to my little cousins’ friends. No one had ever seen a toy like it, nor witnessed any version of the Shredder Monkey on cereal boxes or cartoon shows or anywhere on the internet. As far as pop culture was concerned, he didn’t exist.

Now, fast forward five more years. To this year. Three days ago.

I work for a small ambulance company out of Glendora. I graduated from Citrus College with my AA, but wanted to take some time off in order to earn money and focus on getting into a good BSN program. Life as an EMT with an inter-facility transport company is pretty easy; 90% of the job is driving bed-ridden, confused old people to and from dialysis.

That night, at around 19:00, my partner Ben Cisneros and I were dispatched to San Gabriel Kidney Center to pick up Henry Gaffigan and take him home to Sunshine Convalescent, a delightful little one-star facility where there’s regularly human feces smeared on the floor. We’d been on since 8:00 that morning and were both starting to drag, but you can’t argue with overtime. So we got there, got the guy on the gurney, and loaded him into the rig when Cisneros realized he’d left our oxygen bag inside. He ran back to get it, leaving me alone in the passenger compartment with Produce Aisle Henry.

A little about Henry Gaffigan.

Henry’s 96 years old and weighs around 90 pounds. He’s got a laundry list of chronic diseases, ranging from anemia to CHF to Parkinson’s disease. Mentally, he’s what we call a/o times 0, which means he can’t tell you his name, where he is, what day of the week it is, or what’s going on. Actually, he can’t talk at all; mostly he just stares at you. His atrophied legs are contracted, his right arm is contracted, and his left arm is ragdoll-limp thanks to his second stroke two years ago. His back is so stiff you can’t even prop him up in a wheelchair. He’s on continuous oxygen and, after dialysis, his BP drops so low that twice we’ve had to call 911 from the Kidney Center.

“Hey, Hank,” I said to him cheerfully. “I’m gonna take your blood pressure real quick, okay?”

He stared at me.

I wrapped our manual blood pressure cuff around his left arm. The dialysis machine had given me a fairly healthy 112/54, but those things love reading high. I put on my stethoscope and distracted myself fiddling with the earpieces. Then I heard the whispering.

“New… od…”

I dropped the stethoscope. No way. But his lips were moving again.

“New… Odor… Eigh..”

The utterance was a gravelly whisper, drawn from atrophied vocal chords unused for God knows how long.

“New…Odor…Eigh…Guard…”

I stared at him, mouth gaping. Henry Gaffigan was non-verbal. We’d taken him to dialysis for three years, he hadn’t uttered a word in all that time.

“Mr. Gaffigan!” I said excitedly. “Can you tell me what your name is?”

Then he sat up.

I wouldn’t even call it “sitting.” It’s more like his body folded at the hips like a hinge. He didn’t support himself with his hands, and his back didn’t arch at all. He just sat straight up, like Dracula out of his coffin in the old black-and-white movies. The nasal cannula attached to his face grew taut, then was pulled from the house nozzle.

Like a puppet’s, his head twisted towards me.

“NEW! ODOR! EIGH! GUARD!” he roared.

His voice was mechanical. Metallic. Like the voice your friend’s voice morphs into when she yells into a steel pipe. And the scariest part was that the jibberish words didn’t seem to be coming from Mr. Gaffigan’s mouth, but from all around me, down from the sky and up from the ground and right in front of my face, all at the same time.

I screamed. In one desperate motion I opened the back door and jumped out of the ambulance, stumbling as I hit the asphalt and nearly falling onto my partner. He was back with the oxygen. As I steadied myself, he frowned at me.

“You okay, Gomez?”

“Mr. Gaffigan… he… he said stuff!” I panted. “Did you… did you hear?”

He gave me a strange look, then climbed into the rig to secure the oxygen bag. He stayed in there a minute, and I heard him repeating Mr. Gaffigan’s name, trying to get his attention. Then, he leaned out the door.

“You sure?” he asked suspiciously. “He looks about normal to me. But you forgot to put him on O2.”

Bracing myself, I climbed into the back with him. Mr. Gaffigan lay motionless on the gurney, exactly how we’d positioned him. The blood pressure cuff still dangled from his left arm. His nasal cannula hung at his side, detached.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared shitless at that point. I let my partner tend to Henry Gaffigan while I drove to the convalescent home, and the old man didn’t do anything else out of the ordinary. He was confused, silent, and quadriplegic, just like every transport before. Was I going crazy? I knew what I’d heard. What I’d seen.

And those words… that jibberish. It wasn’t completely unfamiliar.

As soon as I got home, I wrote down phonetically the syllables Mr. Gaffigan had uttered. (Chanted? Screamed?) It was easy; the terrifying sound was unforgettable.

New, odor, eigh, guard.

I puzzled over it. I repeated the words in my mind, then out loud, over and over again. I allowed them to blend together, gain meaning, lose all meaning. And then I got it.

I still live with my parents. Convenience, mostly; work’s close and they don’t charge me rent. And my parents have a frustrating habit of keeping everything – all my elementary school projects, high school textbooks, and childhood playthings live in moldy cardboard boxes in the attic. Which is where I spent that night, digging through said moldy boxes, until I found the one in which my brother Jose’s and my old books were stacked. Bunnicula, Baby Sitter’s Club, Harry Potter, Beverly Cleary… Goosebumps. Goosebumps number 3, 15, 23, 12, 7, 36…

Bingo. Goosebumps number 9. The book I’d been reading on that long drive to Tahoe, 14 years before. I pawed through the sticky pages until I found the blank one on which I’d written:

GARD NWODR EH

I took the book back to my bedroom, rearranged the words on a sheet of notebook paper, and compared them to the word salad Mr. Gaffigan had spouted.

Nwodr Eh Gard
New. Odor. Eigh. Guard.

What the fuck.

Maybe I am going crazy. Because I’m thinking a confused dialysis patient – a nearly-comatose dialysis patient who doesn’t know his own name – recited to me the meaningless syllables I found in a word search on the back of an obscure cereal box fourteen years ago. A box containing cereal that has, apparently, never existed anywhere except for that dilapidated gas station snack shop.

And that voice. That hollow, metallic voice. Booming from all around me, yet inaudible to my partner, no more than 20 feet away.

I looked up. My eyes rested on the stuffed animal that sat, amongst old dolls and beanie babies, atop my bookcase. The squarish, purple stuffed monkey with green paws and a pink belly. Long thin arms, skinny little legs. Round head, red eyes and nose.

And, even though it had no mouth, I could swear the thing was laughing at me.

Credit To – NickyXX

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.7/10 (216 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare

Be Careful What You Wish For

January 24, 2015 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.2/10 (444 votes cast)

The night was painted like a scene in a bad horror movie, the wind howling through the cracks in the windows sounding like the screaming of a tortured woman. The house vibrated with each crack of thunder and the lightening lit up the house as if it were broad daylight . Jacob, Alex and Kaya pretended to be brave and manly, hoping to impress the girls they invited over while Kaya’s parents were out of town.

Sydney was the hottest girl in the entire high school and Kaya really wanted to ask her out. He had to make an impression tonight. As they sat awkwardly staring at each other in silence, Kaya spoke up, breaking the tension.

“Alright guys, I got something that will liven up the night”, he laughs with his crooked grin.

“What, did you steal some of your parents booze?” Jacob mused, fiddling with his cell phone. The girls looked at Kaya, waiting for an answer.

“No jackass, even better. I found an old Ouija board in the attic the other day when I was up there looking for my old Pokemon cards to sell on Ebay. Let’s see if we can contact the other side” he joked as he went into his bedroom to get it.

Sydney looked uncomfortable just looking at the thing but her fiends seemed excited. She had heard some freaky stories about playing around with the Ouija boards.
“Dude, haven’t you seen the Exorcist? Is that what you want to happen to you?” she said half joking and half not.

Kaya responded in his most serious and ominous tone, “Don’t you think it would be kinda cool to be possessed? I have always wanted to be able to turn my head in a 360 and puke split pea soup at people just for fun.”

Alex agreed with him while the girls giggled nervously, “Yeah Kaya, but since you are failing Latin I don’t think you’d make a very good demon.”

Kaya dusted off the box and laid out the board on the coffee table and instructed everyone to sit in a circle. Jacob lit some candles and Alex dimmed the lights.

“Everyone put your fingers on the pointer like this,” Kaya demonstrated trying to be scary “and we will ask it a question.”

They all leaned in around the table and eyeballed Kaya, waiting for him to start.
“What are we supposed to do next?” Maddi asked looking at her best friend Khloe rolling her eyes.

“Well in the movies they always ask it for a sign or something.” Jake responded.

Kaya cleared his throat, “Are you there spirit of the dead? Give us a sign or something” he giggled.

They held their breath and waited for the spirit to answer but the pointer didn’t move.

“Uh hello out there, earth to spirits, come in spirits” Kaya yelled out sarcastically.

Still nothing.

“This is stupid, it doesn’t even…” Khloe sighed as she took her hands off the pointer. But before she could finish her sentence the lights flickered, dimming the house even more.

“There we go” Kaya whispered under his breath.

“Whatever Kaya” Maddi winced, “it’s probably just the storm. It’s blowing like crazy out there.”

“Quit being such a girl Maddi and put your hands back on this thing.” Kaya demanded and continued.

“Are you here?” he said in his spookiest voice. The silence seemed deafening as they waited.

The pointer seeming to move without any effort began to buzz and slide slowly toward the word YES. Everyone looked nervous and suspicious.

“Alright, who is moving this thing?” Sydney asked starting to get really scared and looking at Kaya who was doing his best to hide his undeniable fear.

“It’s not me, I swear on Jacob’s mother grave,” he said as he winked at his best friend.

“Somebody ask it something else” Alex coaxed.

“Are you a girl or a boy?” asked Kaya.

The pointer slid quickly around the board spelling out B O Y.

“Are you good or evil?”

The pointer moved once again, gliding even more frantically, their fingers barely touching it this time.

E V I L…
Just as the pointer reached the L, the lights began to flicker once again and with a loud zap, the whole house went dark.

**
Kaya scrambled to reach for one of the candles on the table that had strangely seemed to go out at the same time as the power. Sydney used the flashlight on her phone to illuminate the darkness. She was practically on Kaya’s lap and almost in tears.

“You guys need to stop this. This isn’t cool. If you planned this whole thing just to scare us Kaya I will never talk to you again.”

“Just chill everyone. It’s just the storm. Let’s keep going,” he said, terrified yet strangely curious to learn more. Everyone put their fingers back on the pointer but Sydney.

“How old are you?’

The pointer moved again. 15

“When was your birthday?”

10 27 99

Kaya jumped up nearly knocking over the table. “Ok, who is moving this thing? He demanded accusingly, glaring at Jacob.

“Dude, I’m not doing it” he replied looking just as concerned.

“Isn’t October 27th your birthday? Sydney asked, looking at Kaya in fear.

“Yes, it is as a matter of fact, this spirit has my exact birthday apparently”, he said, his hands moving back to the pointer.

“What do you look like?” Kaya asked out loud. The pointer quickly moving again from letter to letter…

B l o n d e

B l u e l i k e y o u

“So we are twins then?” Kaya asked. “I suppose you are going to tell me that you are my long lost brother” he joked.

The pointer jerked immediately to the word NO as the flame on the candle began dancing madly.

At this point Kaya was the only one playing- the others huddled close to one another on the couch just watching and waiting.

“How did you die?” Kaya asked.

N O T Y E T

“What do you mean? You don’t want to tell me?”

The pointer raced.

N O T D E A D

“What do you mean you’re not dead?” Kaya asked confused. “How can you talk to me if you are not dead?”

The pointer spelled out a response.
S O O N

***
“Stop it, stop it stop it, just freaking stop it Kaya! You are such a jerk! I will never go out with you!” Sydney yelled, her voice quivering with anger and fear. “Let’s go girls, we are so out here.”

Kaya stood up, almost knocking over the candles. “Syd, please don’t leave, I swear to God it wasn’t me! You gotta believe me!”

But it was too late, they were already closing the door behind them, Alex more than happy to walk them home.

“It’s just you and me dude,” Kaya smiled. Sit down, I wanna ask it some more questions.”

“No way man, you’re on your own,” Jake answered shaking his head in disbelief.
Kaya sat back down in front of the board, feeling a surge of energy and adrenaline coaxing him on.

“What did you mean by soon? You mean you’re going to tell me soon?”

N O
N O N O N O N O N O N O N O N O N O N O

The pointer was nearly spinning out of control, circling the board in figure eights, always returning to the word NO

“What is your name spirit?” Kaya questioned, looking around for Jake who was already out the door, flashing a peace sign. Chicken.

The pointer was still. Kaya took a deep breath and tried hard to focus. He ignored his instincts to walk away, feeling the need to ask it one more question.

“You like to play games, don’t you?” he accused the spirit, speaking into the air like a raving lunatic.

YES

He was starting to burn with an anger he never felt before. His insides churned and shook and his mind raced and heart pounded. With fury, he asked loudly once more,
“I SAID, WHAT IS YOUR NAME SPIRIT?”

The pointer began moving… first to K, then to A…

He closed his eyes, fearing that he knew what the next letters would be.

Y A.

It stopped.

Kaya screamed and threw the board up against the wall cursing it.
“This is ridiculous” he said out loud to himself trying to justify what just happened. He had read about the power of suggestion in a book once but this was just crazy.

Screw this, I ‘m going to bed.

****
It was surprisingly easy to fall asleep, the invitation into the darkness seemed to come quickly this evening. His dreamless sleep lasting only a short while until he was startled back into reality by a strange and familiar sound. He wasn’t sure HOW and imagined he was still asleep but the Ouija board had somehow found its way on the bed right beside where he was laying.

Kaya jerked from beneath the covers, feeling the icy cold sting of the air inside of his throat nearly choking him as he gasped in disbelief. Something inside of him, something internal was drawing him closer to the board. Like a moth to the flame he moved, his hands with a mind of their own, reaching out to touch the shaking pointer that desired to answer his one last question.

He watched as it effortlessly moved across the board, highlighting letter after letter, gaining more power and energy with each one.

M I R R O R

He removed his hands and waved them in front of his face- captivated by the strange tingling that was ravaging his body. Mirror… Did the spirit mean for him to go look in the mirror? Confusion and nausea and elation hit him all at once as he felt that magnetic pull throbbing in his gut, moving him to his feet and into the bathroom. The air was growing thicker and it was getting hard to breathe as he entered the dark room that was illuminated now by only the streetlight outside.

He felt superhuman, almost immortal as his eyes adjusted themselves to the dark. The stranglehold of panic and release possessed him as the flicker of metal caught his eye and made him look down on the sink just below the mirror. He knew for certain that he did not put that butcher knife there.

He wanted to run, to hide, to scream but he wasn’t allowed to. He felt the pull of desire move him to reach down and pick up the knife, admiring its sharp edges and pointed blade. It was if his body was no longer his own.

His eyes moved to the mirror that was covered in steam like it was after he took a hot shower. He watched in horror as an invisible finger spelled out a message.

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

He tried once more to scream and shake the knife out of his hand but he couldn’t. He wiped the steam from the mirror hoping that erasing the letters would make this nightmare less real. But what he saw next was something he was not prepared for.

Looking back at him from inside the mirror he met his own eyes and reflection. But his eyes were no longer blue- they glowed red like the burning embers of the hottest fires of hell. And his wavy blonde locks were now black and stubby, like the bristles on an animal’s hide. The refection moved in time with him as he moved closer to examine his face and arms that’s skin seem to have aged and weathered instantly. What was happening to him?

He looked at the sinister face that now belonged to him and was met with the most sneering and twisted smile that he had ever seen. He watched helplessly as his hand held the knife to his throat, the smile widening and revealing sharp, jagged, rotting teeth. He struggled to inhale and find his voice to scream, to plead, to beg- but all that came out was hysterical laughter and these words…

N O N O N O N O N O N O N O N O N O….

Credit To – Misty Brown and Kaya Brugmann

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 7.2/10 (444 votes cast)
LineWhatsAppTumblrFacebookTwitterRedditPinterestGoogle GmailGoogle+StumbleUponShare