In the Wall

February 18, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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I had moved into a new apartment with my girlfriend about two years ago. It was pretty small; it had only a kitchen, one bedroom, one bathroom, and a living room. All of the rooms might have been small, but the rent was good, and we didn’t really care. Neither of us made enough money to move out of the place, so we tried to make the most of it. One of the oddest things about the place was that the left wall was completely hollowed out, and the right wall was rock solid. I didn’t even notice when we first moved in. Our neighbors were always quiet and kept mostly to themselves. When we moved in, the only neighbors we had were the Whites. The Whites were to the right of us, and they were an elderly couple. They were nice to us. When we had first moved in, they brought us a “welcome to the building” present, which is what they do for all of the new people who had moved in to an apartment in the building. It was a small apple pie, which was actually quite good. About five or six months after my girlfriend and I moved in, there was a new guy that had moved into the right of us. I remember first meeting him. I had just gotten back to the building with some groceries, and as I climbed up the stairs to my apartment, I accidentally bumped into someone.

“Sorry, excuse me Mr…” but I didn’t know who this guy was. Our building is fairly small, and just about everyone knows everyone else. The man I had bumped into was middle aged, probably in his mid-fifties. Something about him was odd, though. He had deep wrinkles, pale white skin, and long greasy black hair that were unkempt and around his face and back. He looked rather sickly, like he needed to see a doctor. His eyes were a solid dark purple, which is something that I have never seen before in my entire life. “Peters” the man said with a grin that stretched ear to ear. His teeth were disgusting. They were un-brushed and looked like they were rotting away. I can still smell his putrid breath, which seemed to reek of old decaying meat. All though his appearance was a little bit creepy, he seemed nice enough. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Peters. My names Matt. Are you new to the building?”  I asked. Mr. Peters smile grew even bigger. I don’t know how he, let alone any human could smile that wide. “Yes, I am moving in. And I’m going to be living right next to your apartment.” He said as we both walked up the stairs to the top floor.

When we reached the top floor, Mr. Peters pace increased as he quickly walked to the door, opened it with his key, and shut the door behind him. It was odd, though. He did it so quickly, it was like a blur. I sighed to myself. “Great, now I have a freakish neighbor.” I thought to myself as I turned the handle of my door. It was about 4:00 P.M. My girlfriend, Sandra, was still at her job. She’s a hair stylist, and I’m a chef at a local Italian restaurant. I usually don’t get off until later, but because business was slow that day, and nobody was coming in, we closed early. I put the groceries down on the kitchen table and start to unload everything into the refrigerator. I didn’t have much with me, only about one bag. Quart of milk, a few sticks of butter, ground hamburger meat, and a box of cereal. I then got a text message from my friend, Tyler. “Bro, I just got my hands on the new Red Dead Redemption game, and you need to go out and get it so we can play together.” Was what the message read. Now, I wasn’t much of a gamer, but Tyler is one of my closest friends that I have. We’ve been best friends ever since middle school. I did have an Xbox 360, and Tyler and I would play games together from time to time. I didn’t really have anything better or more interesting to do, so I texted him back saying I would go out and buy it. As I was just about to leave to go get the game, I heard a lot of banging coming from the wall. It was weird though, because it was so clear. I went up to the left side of the wall and gave it a light tap with my knuckle. This was the first time that I realized that for whatever reason, the wall was hollow like a log. I went to the right wall, and repeated the process, only to be greeted with a thud. This wall was solid. I was puzzled on why in the world the builders of this place would make one wall solid, and the other hollow. I was also curious as to what Mr. Peters was doing to make all of that noise. I just shrugged it off. “Probably just moving things in or something.” I told myself. But, that couldn’t be right. He didn’t have anything with him when I saw him. I shrugged it off, and left to go get the game.

I got back at around 5:00 with my new game, and I was glad to discover that the banging from Mr. Peters ceased. I was happy with this. I didn’t really care what he was doing, as long as he did it quietly. I popped the game in and put my headset on. I have a pretty good headset, it blocks out most sounds. It was nice and tight around the ears, and I loved it. Tyler and I played and talked for almost three hours straight. I would have gone longer, but Sandra came home at about 8:00. I told Tyler that I had to go, and that we could play more tomorrow after I was done with work. Tyler didn’t have a job. He didn’t need one. His father was a rich man who owned some oil company or something like that, I don’t really remember. But I do know that he spoils Tyler rotten, giving him tons of money for doing absolutely nothing at all. I powered off the console and got up out of my chair to give Sandra a hug. We talked about stuff like how our days went, and things like that. I then I remembered Mr. Peters. “Did you know that someone was moving into the apartment right next to us?” I asked. She told me that she was unaware of a new member joining our building. Weird that she didn’t know of Mr. Peters. I decided that I would go ask Mr. and Mrs. White tomorrow morning. They know everybody in the building. They probably already have a pie baked and ready to send over to his apartment.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I had an insane dream about Mr. Peters just standing over my bed, my girlfriend beside me. Smiling that terrifying smile. I was going to do something, wake up my girlfriend, run away in fear, anything. But I was stopped when he simply put his finger over my lips and quietly said “Shhh” in a soft, friendly voice. It didn’t feel like a dream, though. Everything was so clear, and I can remember it all so well. It’s impossible that it was real, though. That’s what my therapist told me, at least. After a long sleepless night, I took a quick shower and was going to get some food for breakfast. I also noticed the banging on the wall from Mr. Peters apartment. It was softer this time, and more… creepy. After my shower, I went to my kitchen. Only, something was off. Quart of milk, a few sticks of butter, ground hamburger meat, but no box of cereal. I looked everywhere, thinking I just misplaced it by accident. Sandra woke up thanks to me frantically looking for the box. “Sandra, what’d you do with the cereal?” I asked her while still looking in the various shelves in my kitchen. “Didn’t you put it in here?” she asked while pointing to the spot where I swore that I put it. “I could have sworn that I did, but I don’t know where it went. Please tell me that you took it,” I said. Yet she continued to deny the accusation. I thought it was her regardless. What else could it have been? A burglar? No. What burglar steals boxes of cereal? I didn’t pay much attention to it, though. I just said, “Guess it just grew a pair of legs and walked off.” and forgot about the whole ordeal.

I went over to the Whites and knocked on their door. I was greeted when Mr. White answered. “Hey there, son. How are you this fine morning?” He asked with his typical happy-go-lucky tone of voice. “Hey there Mr. White. I’m doing well, thanks for asking. But I came over to ask you about someone. Have you heard of a Mr. Peters?” I asked. Mr. White frowned when I asked. “Well, no. Sorry son, can’t say that I have. Who is he?” He questioned. “He moved into the apartment right next to ours. I’m surprised that you don’t know who he is. You of all people in this building would know if someone new was moving in.” I said. Mr. White then smiled and said, “Well we should go and see how’s he’s doing, then.” I think about it for a second, and took him up on his offer. The two of us walked over to his door, and Mr. White knocked on the door. We stood there for a little bit, only to returned with silence. I found it odd that there was no response what so ever. We didn’t even hear any noises from the other side of the door. “Hmm.. He must be sleeping, still.” chimed in Mr. White. I found it to be a reasonable for the lack of sounds coming from the other side of the door. “Well, how about we come back later to see if he’s awake?” I ask Mr. White. He agrees to the offer, and says that he’ll have a freshly bakes pie ready for when I get back from work. We part ways, and I go about my day as normal. Then I got back home.

I changed my clothes, and then went to the kitchen to grab something to eat really fast before I went over to see Mr. White. I grabbed a chocolate bar, and went to the refrigerator. But when I opened the door, I saw no milk quart. Now I was starting to get an annoyed. Was Sandra just pulling a prank or something? I got home before her again, so I decided to just go see to Mr. White and talk to Sandra when she got home. I knocked on the door, and got something I wasn’t expecting at all. Mrs. White answered the door, tears running down her cheeks and red irritated eyes. “Hello, Matt.” She said through her crying. I was completely caught off guard by this, so I simply asked what had happened to out her in this state. “It’s George. My poor, sweet George.” She said. Now, even though Sandra and I just called him, “Mr. White”, we both knew his first name was George. “What happened to him?” I asked. “He’s gone! He just disappeared!” She said through her now heavy sobbing. My mind rushed to one conclusion; Mr. Peters. “Follow me, now.” I told Mrs. White.

I rushed down the hall to Mr. Peters door. I pounded my fist on the door. “Mr. Peters! Open up right now!” I was once again returned with silence. Complete and utter silence. Mrs. White came running down the hallway and caught up to me. “Have you called the police about Mr. White?” I asked. She nodded. “They came over and I told them what happened. Now, why are you banging the door? Who’s Mr. Peters?” I explained everything to her, and she too had never heard of him. Concerned, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. Mrs. White and I waited for the police to arrive, but before they could get to us, Sandra came walking down the hallway. “What’s going on here?” She asked us. I told her about everything that had happened. Mr. White and I coming over, the missing milk, and Mr. White’s disappearance. Sandra waited with us for the police to arrive.

They finally got to the apartment, and I yet again explained my story. They both looked at each other, and knocked on the door, also to be greeted with silence. They went to go talk to the building manager to see if they could get some more information, but he said that there was no Mr. Peters who lived in that apartment. Both the police and the building manager returned to the door, master key in hand. The door then swung open. Nothing. It was just a normal empty room. We all walked in, confused, me more then the others. Then I remembered. I walked over to the wall, and gave it a light knock with my first. The hollow walls made its standard sound. I called everyone over, and showed that the wall was in fact hollow. What went from two police officers quickly escalated into ten. It took about three hours, but Sandra, Mrs. White, the building manager and I all waited for the police to finger out what to do next. After some discussion, the decision was to knock down the hollowed wall, and what I saw next would change my life forever.

It was a terrible sight. Mr. Peters lay quietly next to the dead corpse Mr. White, his stomach messily flayed open. It looked as if Mr. Peters used his teeth to grind a large slit in his stomach, and then used his fingers to pry it open. But that wasn’t the worst part of it was that in his opened up stomach, was a pit of milk, cereal, and blood. There was so much blood.. All over both of their bodies. Mrs. White didn’t take it well. She was hysterical, and started to vomit. Some of the policemen vomited as well, and even though I felt like I was going to, I resisted. Even though that the sight was hooraying, that still isn’t the worst part. The worst thing of the scene was his smile. He had that same ear to ear grin as he did when we first met. The police had their guns drawn, pointed right at him. But he just smiled, straight at me. Straight into my eyes. His gaze sent chills running up my spine. He got up and stepped away from his body, his eyes never leaving mine. His smile never losing its size.

The police brought him out to the apartment, and put handcuffs on him. Other officers took Mr. White out of the hollowed wall, Mrs. White crying all the way. I feel for her, really I do. If I found Sandra in that state, I don’t know how I would react. Mr. Peters was taken away, and he was given the death penalty. I saw a therapist not long after the ordeal, and I still see him once every week. I’m writing this right now, just to warn everyone out there. When you hear banging at you wall or roof, or are just hearing “house noises”, you might want to give it a closer inspection. It probably just is normal “house noises”, but after this event I never took the chance. I’m still incredibly paranoid. I remember one night at around 3:00 in the morning; i heard some banging coming from my kitchen. I got up as I always do, but this time was different. I saw Mr. Peters smiling at me, his teeth dripping with a crimson fluid, which had to be blood. I turned on the light, and he simply vanished into thin air. I don’t know why this is happening to me. I don’t even believe in the supernatural or anything, but I know what I saw. He was just standing there, looking right at me. Smiling that terrifying smile.

Credit To – Cade McKown

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Eugene’s Yacht

February 13, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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I’ve been watching Eugene constantly for about a year now, and if I’ve learned anything in that time at all, it’s that my future plans wouldn’t be easy. Eugene was a smart, devious man. He always seemed to know what was going on, what he needed to do, and who he needed to “take care” of. His constant goal was simple: Be at the top, and kick anyone down who tries to climb their way up. He was respected by his allies, and more importantly, feared by his oppressors.
He did, like all the greater men today, have a weakness. You see, my observations of him weren’t just restricted to my daily office environment, where he and I both conveniently work at. I watched him drive his luxurious Mercedes back from work most days. I watched him walk out of the most prestigious nightclubs and party houses. I watched him take rides along the bay in his prized, multimillion dollar yacht, which is considered to be his trademark investment.

However, I watched him become successful from the beginning, or at least become rich. He was part of a well known, high-class family that had a history of business, talent, and of course, crime. He wasn’t always at the state he is now. While he did live a spoiled and comfortable childhood, he lived life almost like I have. He was an average man working in the same office I did. However,  I never was fond of him even before he became what many call “king of the city”. He was arrogant, always thought himself above others. He didn’t care about your achievements or future plans, and he would always push you aside if you so much as stepped in the way of his. Once his father and mother died in an “accident” involving a helicopter crash, he was believed to be unstoppable in most eyes. He was still arrogant, however, and I would use this to my advantage.

I have a reason for my hatred towards him. You see, my wife is – sorry, was – a detective for the Vancouver Police Department. Dangerous work, no doubt, but can be a death wish if you get involved in Eugene’s plans. When Eugene’s parents died in the helicopter crash, everyone expected he was involved in some way, but there was direct proof of it. Unlike everyone else, my wife, who happened to have seen Eugene suspiciously walking away from the helicopter before takeoff, decided to try to expose Eugene’s actions. I warned her not to do it, but she saw it as an opportunity for recognition and reward. The only award she received was a cut to the throat. I know it was either the action of Eugene, or someone hired by him. I can only hope that her death was quick, that she wasn’t tormented for by his hands. I’ve had nightmares that have plagued my mind that have convinced myself otherwise. Let’s just say that they have made me a different man.

It was at this moment that I snapped. My dislike of Eugene had turned into an inferno of vengeance that the ocean itself couldn’t expel. I began to watch him any moment I could. Many times at the office, I found it difficult to sometimes restrain my anger, and my thoughts to impale his eye with a pen. I knew, however, that the only way I could hope to achieve my revenge would be in a way of stealth, of subtleness. I needed to exploit one of Eugene’s few weaknesses. Be there when he slips, and then cease to make him breath.

What could I do though? I was only a simple, 27 year old average man, working in an above average office space. What skills did I have in murder? Could I just wait until Eugene stumbles into a dark alley? No, he always has bodyguards when walking the streets. Could I raid his high-class estate and get him in his sleep? No, his security is probably top-notch. Could I sink his multimillion dollar yacht to the bottom of the coastline while he’s on his weekend sail? Wait………I could. Never has I thought of the idea until that moment, but I actually could.  He liked to have some space when he sails. He liked to take some time away from the popularity, the security, and the pressure of all his opponents. He takes this time away in the form of his yacht trips. I know, I’ve seen him do it many times, all in the same way. He would board the boat (usually with a woman, sometimes two), sail out to the coast (far out to the point where he can hardly been seen from the shore), and then stay away for the rest of the days, until the weekend is over.

The more I thought about these truths, the more I thought the plan was possible, and the more I thought it possible, the more I began to laugh. Along with this, what I found the most… strange, however, was how I heard a faint voice in my head, laughing with me. I couldn’t make it out at first, but, looking back at it, it sounded very similar to my wife’s laugh, if my wife was an eager psychopath about to start a massacre in the downtown streets. Was I going insane with my plan? Perhaps, but then again, I could already be insane before I thought the idea. The way I’m going right now, however, I don’t see that too much of a problem.

Well, back on topic. So, I evolved my sudden flicker of an idea into a bright, glowing, and functioning plan. The talk of the building, which I always listened to, was that Eugene was going to take a slightly extended voyage on his yacht at the end of the month, starting May 23rd and returning the 27th. The day the began the plan was the 20th. Considering the materials and planning required of this plan, I had very limited time. What did I need to do though? I could just as easily sneak on his mostly unguarded yacht (where Eugene ironically believes he most safe), and kill him quickly with a simple kitchen knife or cheap Saturday night special.

No. It can’t be that simple. I don’t want him to just die in a quick moment of pain and demise. I want him to suffer, to fear every moment of his impending doom, and then parish in a way he would never expect coming. Sinking his yacht, along with his treasures onboard, his few guards, and all his successful history on that trip is a perfect way to do so.

With the few day’s I had, I examined the boat at the marina. I made sure I hastily logged and mapped every opening and point of the boat. Every door, every balcony, every ladder, every window. No spot was spared. I made appointment’s with some of the street dealers, and obtained cheap, homemade, but effective explosives. I also bought a knife and a silenced .45, just in case I need to get my hands a little dirty with a guard. I don’t plan to though, I don’t want to kill until the moment is right. As a final part of the planning, I listened in on some of Eugene’s phone calls and conversations to know exactly who will be on the yacht at the right time.

The night of the departure, I ran the numbers a final time: One rich bastard, one woman, four guards, two butlers, one boat pilot, one angered and possibly crazed assailant, and hopefully by the end, one capsized yacht. It was time to put the plan to action.

It was the 23rd, 10:00 at night. I had set the explosives under the boat the night before. Eugene always preferred to depart in the late evening, possibly to enjoy some nightlife before departing. As he boarded his boat, I laughed quietly, but confidently. Eugene had walked obliviously onto an explosive-riddled yacht, which would began to sink rapidly at the push of a button. I made sure I laughed secretly because he was also unaware that I was inside the yacht’s lifeboat. He of course didn’t suspect this, as his arrogance and confidence in his yacht trips always makes his brilliant side blind.

Once the boat was about a mile offshore, I began my work. I sneaked my way into the pilots control room. I slithered behind the pilot, and like a rogue train smashed his head into the control wheel. His dazed body fell to the floor, as the control of the yacht rested in my vengeful, shaking hands. I set the vessel to constantly travel north, out to sea until the rest of my plan would be accomplished.

I then waited until Eugene called down everyone for a late dinner brake. The few people on the yacht would gather in the dinning room, drink, and have a good time before the guards and servants returned to their posts. All except for the pilot, who was required to stay at control until the guards secured the area again. When everyone was present in the room, I barred all the doors that led to freedom. I didn’t need to worry about the windows, as all were closed and Eugene had them bulletproofed years ago, feeling the need for at least some security.

I fled to the lifeboat with all my stamina. There was no more need for stealth, just haste. Once I dived to the small boat, lowered to the water, and got myself around twenty feet away, I took a few deep breaths, and then pushed the detonator for the explosives.

A loud force from underneath the surface could be heard, and then large amounts of bubbles began to excrete around the edge of the boat. I heard a few startled screams at first, then silence, and then screams of turmoil and fear as the boat began to become consumed by water. The passengers screamed as yacht dragged down into the water, as if it was a dammed soul being forcefully taken to hell. They tried to break the windows, but continued to panic as Eugene’s poor planning said otherwise.

In one of the yacht’s last moments, Eugene looked out of one of the last surfaced windows, and he spotted me. He an I exchanged hateful glares for a quick moment. The look I witnessed in his face was brief, but it’s one I will remember for the remainder of my life. It was a look of recognition, of remembrance, of regret. But most of all, it asked a question: How the hell did a man like this get the best of me? Perhaps, he found the answer to that question in the little time he had left.

Eugene, along with everyone else on that boat, was never found. Neither was the yacht for that matter. I had made preparations to make sure it wouldn’t be recovered. Because of the remoteness of the boat, and the depth of the coastline, it was remained suspected that Eugene’s yacht was lost at sea during a storm, which actually happened the day after my actions. I suppose that was lucky on my part.

Sitting here in my apartment now, thinking about the event, I can’t help but think of the life I destroyed. I took a life with great potential, a life that had many turns, many moments of struggle, and moments of success and victory. Eugene could have even gone to the status of President if he had put the effort in. He was feared, respected, and in some cases, loved. The more I think about it, the more it begins to make me laugh. The more I laugh,  the more I hear the faint voice of my wife begin laugh with me.

Credit To – Richard C. Southard

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The Veiled Girl

February 12, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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In 1998, I was in grade 7 of school and undergoing a disorienting move from Manitoba to a small town on the boarder of Arkansas and Oklahoma. I wasn’t used to the lack of buildings, and in turn, lack of places to go. The town’s main road led straight through it’s center and consisted of a few restaurants, a shanty motel, and some shopping centers. Beyond that, the only source of entertainment was a bowling ally and a movie theatre that always seemed a few months behind.

My refuge as an only child from my parents were the mounds of dirt and half-built houses that were strewn throughout my developing neighborhood. I would jump from hill to hill as a giant monster or act like I was on the moon. The houses served as secret lairs, caves, and space stations. Every day was a new adventure and going home was simply a reset. The next day always held new things to discover. I tried to enjoy this as much as I could because I started school the next week. I wasn’t sure why my family had to move in the middle of March break, but at least I got a fresh start.

That Saturday, we invited over the family across the street. The dinner my mother spent an hour on consisted of a roast with vegetables. We all happily enjoyed it. I sat in on the conversations that conspired later that evening. The family involved the mother and father of a recently adopted child, a girl of 12. She stayed home due to the fact that she was still adjusting to her new life. And that was the end of it. They went home without a word more of the mysterious girl as if they were offended in her mentioning. One would think, an adoption is something worth talking about. No such case.

Sunday came about, and church came with it. A morning where silence and good behavior were expected and I had to wear my scratchy, button-up shirt. We sat in the third pew on the left. The family we met yesterday was there. They sat in the back corner against the wall keeping their heads down while constantly surveying the room. Between the two of them sat a third, smaller person. They wore a short yellow dress and little black shoes that shimmered from the light coming in the window. It was the girl, or so I assumed, she was covered by a white, embroidered blanket over her head and face. I continually looked back at them tying to be as inconspicuous as possible to get a good look at them. The couple seemed to be clenching the wrists of the girl, restraining her from getting up, though she wasn’t struggling to break free. She didn’t even seem phased by the sheet that segregated her from the world. She just sat, stone still. I heard murmurings from behind me saying she was a demon spawn, but I disregarded this, it being church and people can be overly superstitious. They didn’t twitch as the congregation left the chapel. They were waiting to see the priest for something. As I walked by, however, I took a final glance at them. The mother was looking at the front of the church, the father stared at the ground, and through the sheet that separated us, the girl was looking at me.

After dinner that Sunday, there was to be another hour of light and my mother allowed me outside for a short time. As usual, I ran to my favorite house. It was different in that it’s spindly frame supported a solid ceiling and thus an attic I could climb up into. There were a few cracks between the plywood boards that sealed the attic from the cooling Spring air, allowing razors of light inside. I had only found it two days ago, but I hadn’t been anywhere since. Upon my initial entry that Friday, it was a little creepy having so little light inside as opposed to the other houses, but it quickly became an atmosphere where my imagination could run ramped.

This day, however, returned me to that initial feeling of something watching me in the dark expanse. This was partially due to the time of day, but mostly the days experience with the girl. Her hidden stare gave me chills from the thought of being seen by one who could not be seen. I would not sleep that night, not because of what happened but what was to happen yet. I went to the attic. It was dark, very dark. There were slivers of soft blue light that entered the cracks and they obstructed my view of the opposite side of the room. However, without the visual evidence, I could hear something  across from me. It was the sound of… squishing, crunching, popping.

At my feet, there were shreds of white cloth crawling around my feet in the eddies of wind. I backed against the slanted wall on my left and began to get closer. My visibility slowly grew stronger as I approached, one by one breaking through the moonlight walls. I couldn’t see fully until I was only a few feet away. I passed through the final beam of light to reach the dark corner. I should have ran away from the start to shield myself from the evil I was about to witness. But how was I to know? The thing that was there in the corner was small, yellow and had long black hair running down it’s back. I call her a “thing” because she did not look fully human. Her face was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen, and to this day. A wide, darkly rimmed mouth was spread across the bottom half of her head. The lower portion of her nose was gone; ripped off and gushing blood. And above this mess, lay two gaping holes where her eyes once rested. Disturbing further was her lower half. Her legs, her legs were gone; torn from her body in a brutal manner. It was horrible that someone would do this to her. At least, I wished someone had done it contrary to the horrible fact that she did it to herself.

That sound I initially heard had stopped the moment I saw her. Between her chewed-off fingers was a leg, one of two. As it dripped and oozed it’s blood in a shimmering pool, the girl was turned away from it. She was looking at me again. Hollow head. Smile wide.

I don’t know how long I stood there, but I ran home. I didn’t utter a word to my parents as I charged by them to my room. I just went to bed and cried. The paper the next morning reported a maimed girl being found.

The story was altered, but I knew the truth.

Credit To – Charles M

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The Scuttler

January 11, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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This is the first time I’ve ever shared the story I’m about to tell you. Sometimes, in the still of the night, it runs through my head on a loop – so I feel the time’s come to put it out there in the hope that certain demons can be laid to rest.

It all started with a dare – like many unspeakable things do. I mean, when Gemma and I initially took up the challenge to stay in the old Chantler house overnight, it’s not as though we hadn’t heard all the stories about the Scuttler – we just didn’t worry too much about them. Girls of logic, that’s what we were – and no amount of crazy stories could shock us or put us off. That’s not to say that the old house wasn’t spooky in its own way. It had been abandoned years previously and, as with all empty, decaying houses, it had an air of melancholy about it that wasn’t entirely pleasant but certainly didn’t appear threatening or other-worldly in any way.
Well, I’m sure you know how it is; a group of university friends sitting around after an evening’s revelry, bathed only in the glow of blossom scented candles, tanked up on a little too much to wine and up way past our bedtimes. Naturally, the conversation turned to ghosts and ghouls and all the other rubbish that people like to talk about when a good spine-chilling session is in order. It was Roger who first introduced the topic of the Scuttler, and not for the first time either. Ever since we’d taken up residence in our own house in the second year of our degrees, Roger had shown a keen interest in the subject, not least because we lived almost opposite the old house. It wasn’t an obsession exactly, more of a vague amusement combined with a certain degree of wide-eyed belief. So, once again, he broached the subject on the night in question. The assembled company groaned audibly when the topic of the Scuttler was raised and Gemma, stubbing out a cigarette with a bored yawn, grumbled, “Here we go again…”
“No but really,” said Roger, “it’s such an odd story that it could almost be real.”
“Yeah, almost but not quite,” I said. “That is the point of urban myths, Rog, to sound believable when, even underneath it all, you know they can’t be true or ninety percent of it is made up.”
“I agree,” said Sophie, “it’s like that stupid story about the man who hammered a nail through his penis for a thrill, split it open, poured Coke over it to stop the bleeding and then passed out.”
“So, what’s unusual about that, anyone would pass out if they’d just split open their most prized possession,” commented Roger.
“No, that’s not the end,” continued Sophie. “Apparently he came round hours later and when he looked down his lunchbox and, by that, I mean the entire ensemble, it had been entirely eaten away, as had part of his lower intestine. It’s said that rats were attracted by the smell of the Coke and had gnawed the whole of his tackle away.
“That’s absolute nonsense,” laughed Gemma.
“Well, you don’t know for certain,” said the ever-believing Roger.
“It is such nonsense,” Gemma giggled, “everyone knows rats don’t drink Coke, they only like Pepsi.”
“You can joke about it all you want,” grumbled Roger, “but I wouldn’t dismiss it so lightly if I were you. And I wouldn’t dismiss the tale about the Chantler house either.”
“Why not?” Gemma said, “it’s not like I ever have cause to visit the place. It really doesn’t affect my life one bit.”
“Yes and I’ll bet you never would visit the place either,” said Roger, in a tone which indicated he thought he’d proved his point.
“Well I don’t need to visit it, so I probably never will but I wouldn’t be scared to.”
Roger held Gemma’s gaze steadily for a full minute before licking his lips, raising an eyebrow and challenging her to prove it.
Gemma, brazen as ever, lit up a new cigarette, inhaled deeply and told Roger that, if that’s what he needed to prove it was all a crock of shit, she’d be perfectly willing to do so. But only on the understanding that, after she’d spent a full night there, he would never raise the subject of the Scuttler again.
Feeling it unfair to allow Gemma to go on her own, and eager to prove Roger wrong, I offered to take up the challenge with her. And, so it was, that we prepared ourselves to spend a full night in the shadow of the Scuttler the following weekend. My joy knew no limits.

So, perhaps now is the time to fill you in on the story of the Scuttler. Legend has it that the house was inhabited by the Chantler family in the early nineties. Said family consisted of a mother, father and two of the most gorgeous children you could ever hope to meet; a blue-eyed, blonde haired dream of a girl and her strikingly handsome brother who, at ten years old, couldn’t do enough for his younger sister.
Life jogged along in a merry old fashion for the Chantler family, with all the obligatory visits to the zoo and Disney World and skiing holidays in the Alps during school holidays. Life was fine and merry for the family. Merry, that was, until one summer morning in 2000 when nine year old Rosa was playing in the driveway of the house, jumping from square to square on a hopscotch board that she had chalked onto the gravel.
She was so engrossed in her game, long blonde hair swinging like a golden sheet in the sun, that she only registered the sound of the car when it was inches away from her. Frozen to the spot, she was unable to move quickly enough before the car reversed over her, crushing both her legs in the process.
Hearing her screams, Mrs. Chantler came rushing out of the house, to be greeted by the unenviable view of her daughter trapped beneath the wheels of her husband’s car, covered in blood and convulsing violently. Her beloved son sat in the driver’s seat, hands still gripping the steering wheel from where he had reversed it out of the garage.
After that the Chantlers’ lives changed considerably. Young Rosa had both her legs amputated above the knee and spent the rest of her childhood in a wheelchair. But, apparently, that wasn’t all. In the time it takes to reverse a car, poor young Charles had gone from being the hero of Rosa’s childhood to being an antichrist. Heart filled with a burning rage, Rosa began to create ways to make her brother’s life a nightmare. Hell-bent on vengeance, she would terrorise him in every way she knew how.
Knowing that he hated the sight of her useless stumps, she refused to learn to wear the prosthetic limbs the doctors had made for her and insisted on making her brother come face to face, on a daily basis, with the results of his actions. Of a night, Rosa would roll out of her bed and, using her arms to move, would scuttle towards Charles’s room where she proceeded to inflict her own injuries on him.
When Charles’s mother commented on the cuts and bruises that had suddenly started to appear on his body, he remained silent or told her that he had simply tripped over, fearing the new-found power of the little girl who plagued his every waking moment. Of a night he would lay rigid in his bed, ears straining for the telltale scuttling sound that marked his vengeful sibling’s approach.
Like all good victims, Charles continued to keep quiet which, in the end, was the biggest mistake of his life. In fact, it was the last mistake of his short little life. In the wee small hours of a cold winter morning, some eighteen months after her accident, ten year old Rosa sneaked into her brother’s room for the last time. Wielding a large steak knife, which she had requisitioned from the kitchen earlier in the day, Rosa set about cutting her brother into small pieces. She ripped so much flesh out of his body that by the time she was finished, the knife was allegedly blunt and there was barely an inch of the room that wasn’t covered in blood.
Now here’s where the story starts to get really silly. Having done away with her brother in the most grotesque manner, Rosa scuttled away and, squeezing her small body through an old service-hatch in the wall, disappeared into the dark crawl space of the house, never to be seen again. Except, of course, on the odd occasion that an unwitting tramp decided to bed down in the abandoned Chantler house, when Rosa would put in an appearance, never getting any older mind, and scuttle over and slash the poor old bugger to death. I mean, have you ever heard such nonsense in your life?
Anyway, armed with a few bottles of wine, an emergency supply of chocolate that would have sent a dietician into a fit, and a carrier bag of large candles, plus a strong torch, and a few blankets, Gemma and I crept into the abandoned Chantler residence. Belief or no belief in spooky tales, it wasn’t a pleasant place. In fact it was rank. It stunk of years of decay and you couldn’t tread on a floorboard without it making some form of protest.
“Yuck. Remind me why we’re doing this again?” said Gemma, untangling a cobweb from her long, fair hair. Usually in pristine condition, I wondered how long it would be before it started looking a bit ratty from all the dust in the house.
“Don’t go blaming me, you agreed to it,” I reminded her, delving into the carrier bag and lighting a few candles.
After a quick reccie of the place, armed with our trusty torch, everything appeared to be Scuttler-free and rather normal – well, as normal as you could expect. Coming down the stairs, my legs gave way slightly and Gemma reached out and grabbed roughly at my sleeve, in order to save me plummeting head first down the wooden staircase.
“Christ, be careful,” she said, a flutter of concern in her voice. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, brushing her off and reclaiming my sleeve. “You know what a clumsy cow I am, and these mouldy old stairs don’t help much.”
“You’re too bloody clumsy if you ask me,” responded Gemma huffily and then her face broke into a mischievous smile as she reminded me of the time I had tripped over and landed face-down in Roger’s birthday cake.
“Well, this is fun,” I said after a while.
“Sure is,” Gemma replied, breaking open a bar of Cadburys Fruit & Nut and taking a huge bite. “I sort of wish I’d never agreed to it now,” she said around a mouthful of chocolate.
“We could always go back.”
“Oh right, and have Roger laugh at us for being cowards. He’d never believe it was just because we missed our creature comforts. No, I reckon we’ve got to stay or we’ll never hear the last of his Scuttler stories.”
So saying, we settled down into a companionable silence, of sorts – the silence bit was total but the companionable part was a little questionable. Gemma and I, although we used to get along fantastically and were still reasonably good friends, had experienced problems in the past; a long story involving her nabbing a tall, hunky post-grad that I’d had my eye on for months. Although we made it up in the end, things had never been quite as rosy between us since. It was during times like this that I always feared she would bring it up again. Silent, all-girls-together times which generated topics of conversation that I just couldn’t deal with. It was not my way to talk problems out and I hoped that she wouldn’t raise the subject that night, because I knew myself well enough to be certain that it would work me up into a temper again. And then where would we be? Back to square one, with a disagreeable atmosphere in the house and people tiptoeing round us.
As bad luck would have it, Gemma managed to last a whole fifteen minutes, roughly the amount of time it took her to polish of a Mars Bar and half a Kit Kat, before she mentioned the hunky post-grad.
“Look Emily,” she began, twisting a strand of hair around her index finger, “I just want to let you know again how sorry I am about all that business with Adam.”
“Don’t mention it,” I responded mildly, trying to stop her before she got going.
“It’s just that I still feel bad about it…”
“Really, don’t mention it,” I said, cutting her off and hoping she would take the hint. No such luck. For the next half an hour I was subjected to the spectacle of Gemma’s guilt. On and on she went until, at about half past one, we heard a scuttling sound from above. Both of us froze and I immediately strained my ears to try and catch the sound. Then it came again, a slow, scraping sort of a noise like a sack, or a very small body, being dragged across the floor.
“You don’t think it’s the Scuttler do you?” hissed Gemma, her eyes wide with fear.
“I doubt it very much, it’s just a story,” I replied. Nevertheless, it certainly sounded like someone was up there.

The noise continued, moving over our heads and then making its way slowly, slowly down the stairs. Bump, scrape. Bump, scrape. Gemma and I stared at each other, mouths slack with fear. Licking my lips, I heard the noise approach the lounge and shrunk back into the shadows. It couldn’t be the Scuttler, I mean it was just a story, right? A pile of crap. But, nevertheless, something was in there with us. Suddenly the door banged open and Gemma and I screeched, grabbing each other in a fear-induced embrace as an old tramp lumbered in, a half-finished bottle of Gin hanging limply in his hands.
“Whaa yer doin’ ‘ere?” he slurred, as his glassy eyes tried to focus on us.
Gemma and I, still catching our breath were unable to answer.
“Bloody treshpassers. Bet you’re lookin’ out for Scuttler,” he said and giggled manically. “Well, I hope she fin-findsh yous,” he scowled and, with that, he shuffled out of the house, letting the front door bang loudly behind him.
Gemma and I looked at one another and then her blue eyes crinkled into a smile and she started to laugh in relief, lightening the atmosphere somewhat until, that is, she insisted on raising the issue of Adam again five minutes later.

By half past two I was in a blind rage with her. The girl didn’t know when to drop an issue. Above us, a floorboard creaked again and something scuttled in the murky depths of one of the rooms. Probably just a rat, I thought. I tried to convince myself that the Scuttler didn’t exist anymore. Perhaps had never existed but, as Gemma flicked back her long, blonde hair and surveyed me with cool, blue eyes that knew too much, I instantly sensed that the Scuttler was amongst us. Hidden all those years, she had been right there without my even realising.
As Gemma’s eyes looked fearfully at a point just beyond my shoulder, as though assessing the chance of escape in the presence of the damned, I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise and a cold chill fill the hollow of my stomach.
Suddenly there was blood everywhere. Before I knew what had happened, there was a snapping sound inside my head, or maybe it was one of Gemma’s bones because, in that instant, Gemma was being torn to pieces. I watched the whole thing, as though standing outside of myself – saw the gelatinous, viscid gore that eased out of her body and matted her hair. The glutinous pop that her eyeballs made as they were ripped apart and the shocked, rictus grin that her mouth made as she realised the truth and, through it all, the shadow of the Scuttler hung over us, terrifying me more than anything ever had before, driving me into a demented, petrified panic.
And then I was running along the pavement with all my might as I sought to gain the sanctuary of my own house on the other side of the street and outrun the spectre of the Scuttler. Twice I stumbled and fell, and twice I clambered unsteadily to my feet, looking behind me at that house of horrors before I lurched forwards again towards the warm lights of the student house. Screeching through the door, I was met by the aghast faces of my friends as I told them that something, I knew not what, but something unearthly had attacked Gemma.
Unable to stop them, I watched as they ran across the road towards the old Chantler house and, slowly, I ascended the stairs and made for the quietness of my own room. Once there, I surveyed myself in the mirror. Quite a lot of Gemma’s blood had made its way onto my fair hair, tingeing it with ruby-red highlights. As I sat down on the bed, I contemplated once again the strange myth that had attached itself to the house. My, I thought, as I ran my hand over my aching thighs, how people liked to exaggerate. How things get changed over the years. As if a small girl would refuse the use of artificial limbs, preferring to scuttle around. And as if a girl would beat and bruise her brother, and then to think that she would kill him and slip away forever into the bowels of a house, living there even after it was long abandoned. No, that would never happen.
A girl would run to her parents, confess what she had done but they would understand. In time they would understand. Her brother had taken away her life and, in turn, she had exacted her revenge but not in a gory display, just with one swift motion of the knife; one exact, precise thrust into the heart of her once-loved sibling. And, surely too, she would be given proper psychiatric care allowing her, eventually, to live a normal life.
Yes, apart from the occasional bout of anger her life would be normal, almost boringly normal. Perhaps she would even go to university and try to get herself a degree, change her name and, at some point, forget the past – just so long as people stopped stirring up that buzzing nest of anger in the pit of her stomach. Yes, I though, as I bent down and ran my hands over the length of my artificial legs – legs that I had become so adept at using over the past ten years that, apart from the odd bout of clumsiness, nobody would ever guess I wore them – that’s the way it would happen.

I should know, because that’s the way it did happen.

Credit To – Adena Graham

Please note: This is original version of The Scuttler and is posted here with permission from the original author, Adena Graham. It has been since altered without prior permission and circulated around the internet in a video by Mr Creepy Pasta and Gemma Louise Carline (Gemma Moonstone)  on a number of other websites. The author wishes to distance herself from these other, unapproved versions (including the altered version on Scary for Kids) as they are in breach of copyright. 

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Branches in the Wind

January 9, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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Finally, I’m home. After working a late night, I finally finished a project that my boss pushed on me. It was all worth it though, because I had a great day ahead of me. The part I was most excited for though, was seeing my son. I finally won the custody battle against my ex-wife, so now I actually get to see him. I fixed up my old spare bedroom for him, although it looked bland in all white. I figured we would have some spare time later and we could make any changes he wanted. I lumbered up the stairs, and when he finally heard I was here, he quickly called me into his room.

“Daddy, I can’t sleep, there’s a monster in the window!”

Monsters, huh, that’s original for a kid.

“Oh don’t worry about that, it’s just the tree’s branches blowing in the wind, see?”

I pointed and showed him the branch tapping against the window pane. He trusted me enough to calm himself down, and I kissed him good night. Finally, time for sleep, I could hardly even see straight at this point. I walked across the hallway, and collapsed into my bed. I had too much on my plate to be dealing with monsters. I had to go with him to school the next day to get him signed up in our district, I had to buy him school clothes, I couldn’t even think straight. That’s when I heard him calling again. Man, I love the kid and all, but I needed some sleep!

“Daddy, the monster is back again!” he shrieked.

I looked to the window: nope, nothing but the tree’s branches. I walked over, and to prove it to him, I opened the window and turned back to him.
“See, it’s nothing but the tree, I told you, now go to sleep, you’ve got school in the morning.”

He was still a little startled from what I could see, but what could I do, I was just too damn tired. Again, I fell into the comfort of my bed. Then I heard a cry, and I had just had enough.

“Fine, I’ll just sleep in your bed with you, if you see any monsters, just hold tight to me.”

I walked back into his room, pulled back his red blanket, and lay next to the kid.

While I lay, eyes closed, my mind started wandering. Didn’t I buy white sheets for the bed? I looked at my son’s slit neck and realized my mistake. That’s when I heard the monster, except it wasn’t tapping at the glass; it was the footsteps from the opened window. I couldn’t help but laugh, how didn’t I realize I had no trees in my yard?

Credit To: Legendd

DERPNOTE: This pasta is a Crappypasta Success Story. That means that it received enough upvotes during its time on Crappypasta for it to be posted on the main archive. You can find its Crappypasta entry here. Thanks, everyone!

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December 22, 2012 at 12:00 PM
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Laura looks at the clock on her dashboard which reads “5:43”. She curses herself for staying late at work, but there was just too much to do to justify leaving early. Being Valentines Day, she knows she should have made an effort to get home on time to be with her husband. They managed to somehow get the kids out of the house for the weekend and the thought of missing out on this opportunity for some alone time is nearly frightening.

Rolling into her driveway, she notices something posted on the door. The stack of papers on the passenger seat is stuffed into her bag as she exits her minivan and walks up to the door. Her eyes squint the whole way, trying to make something of this disconformity. It’s a note. She reads it and her heart sails.

“Meet me inside for some fun…”

Part of her feels her level of guilt double, being that he has put some real effort into this special day, but the other part can’t wait to see what her husband has cooked up. She turns around to see if anyone is watching, slightly embarrassed that perhaps someone has seen this sultry example of foreplay. No one. She tears off the note and dances inside, giddy with excitement.

The lights throughout the house are all turned down while candles burn, their dim ambiance casting soft rays of amber against the beige walls. She tosses her bag to the floor and starts searching. The second note is found in the kitchen, stuck to the side of a can of whipped cream.

“You’re almost there. Come to the bedroom and bring this with you.”

Her heart is pumping with anticipation as she grabs it and makes her way to the staircase. She grasps the banister with her free hand, arms shaking. Each step has a rose petal placed delicately on it and rich vanilla cascades from a candle perched somewhere in the dark abyss of the hallway. Reaching the top floor she sees another note on the door to the bedroom.


She quickly fluffs and fixes her hair before flinging the door open, standing in the threshold in her sexiest stance. The bed is made up with heart shaped pillows. A bottle of champagne is chilling in a bucket of ice. More candles fill the room with light and scent but something is wrong. Her husband is nowhere to be found. Confused, she looks around finding one final note across the room, stuck to her dresser.

“Your husband is dead. Perhaps you would like to join him in the closet?”

Credit To – DtheJG

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