He is Coming Back

May 17, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.7/10 (436 votes cast)

I looked down at Juliet lying in my lap. Her quiet form was beyond angelic. It was a little early for her to be sleeping, but I just couldn’t bring myself to move her. My little angel, she had such a hard day. Not only was she sick earlier today, but her father walked out on us.

My husband just left. He packed his clothing and left. There was no preamble. There was no warning. He just walked out a hardened look on his face. Our marriage was strained at best. The conversations we carried rarely lasting more than a few brief moments, but the one thing we could agree on was our daughter. Juliet was the light of our lives.

I sat on the couch reminiscing about our dying marriage, while gently stroking her baby fine hair. I looked down at her. Her hair was the color of mahogany. The same color as her fathers. A tear escaped my eye, gently landing on her face. All the while thinking more and more on what I had failed at.

We were fighting all the time, until we finally snapped. The fight was as volatile as it could be without fists flying. I stormed off to my daughter’s room to comfort her crying. Giving her more Benadryl to help with her cough, I held her in my arms. She went to sleep her breathing slowed, and she was out.

Resting her head in my lap I sat there for hours, staring at the wall. How could my husband leave me? We were everything to each other. He will be back; I know this in every fiber of my being. I continued to stroke Juliet’s hair. My husband would be back, I keep repeating this internal mantra. Over and over, for what seemed like hours or days, I continued to repeat this.

This whole fight, everything, was all over him having another mistress. I was getting him back, one way or another. With no regard to anything that anyone would say or do, I would get my husband back, at no expense. He had no choice. I knew he would be back, he was mine. No one else could stake that claim to him, I would never allow it.

My daughter stirred in my lap, and looked up at me with sad eyes.

“He is not coming back, mommy.” Her voice like a thousand angels speaking at once, both comforted me and broke my heart. My perfect angel lay her head back down in my lap just as it was before.

The sound of banging on the house door registered to my mind, yet I could not focus on it. Still I continued to stroke my daughter’s hair. The footsteps racing down the hall still were ignored by my mind.

My angel lay still in my lap, the poor thing. The door to the room we were sitting in was busted down, and rushed by a group of men in swat gear. I couldn’t hear the screaming. Juliet’s words were still ringing in my ears.
“He is not coming back, mommy.”

The officers swarmed me. They took my baby from my lap. I know I screamed; I wanted my husband. Where was he? They took the empty bottle of Benadryl off of the night stand. They continued to yell at me, while gently placing my child into a black bag.

My poor baby, she had such a hard day. She was sick, her daddy left us. However, I know she is happy. As often happens with children her age, she was wrong. I know she was wrong. Her daddy does not love his mistress. He is mine.

My sweet angel, she had such a hard day. Tomorrow will be better; I know her daddy will come back. I continue to smile lovingly at her as the man zippers up the black bag she is in. Her daddy will be back. He is mine.

Credit To – Ahriannah

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 6.7/10 (436 votes cast)

The Looking Game

May 7, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.8/10 (631 votes cast)

The blaring sound of seven in the morning jars you violently from sleep, shoving dreams away like rocks off a cliff, never to be seen again. You stir and make morning noises as you reach from beneath your sheets and blindly search for the Snooze button. Once silenced, you convince yourself not to rappel back down the cliff of slumber and reluctantly get up to begin your day.

Yawning widely, you shuffle from your room to the hallway, wiping crust from your eyes and drool from your mouth. You never were a very pretty sleeper – part of the reason why you are still single. The thought makes you smile randomly.

You eventually find the bathroom and, after a few seconds of grasping in the dark, turn on the light. You flinch back like a frightened vampire before shaking your head at your own immaturity and stepping inside for a meeting with the porcelain head.

Concluding the meeting with a flush, you move to the sink to wash your hands. Your eyes wander up to the mirror, looking at your own semi-sleepy reflection. Your hair is a mess, and the bags under your eyes look like plums. You think to yourself, Wow, who’s that sexy beast? and chuckle softly, wringing soap from your hands.

Then, as you dry them on a towel adjacent, you get an idea.

Have you ever actually seen yourself looking away in a mirror? Not like you turn your head and look back with your eyes – that doesn’t count because you’d still see your reflection looking at you. You’re thinking more along the lines of catching yourself looking away, of somehow moving so quickly that you defy physics and actually see your reflection looking away before it can look back with you. Like the reflection is someone you can trick into making a mistake.

Clearly, you think to yourself, this is a dumb idea, a really dumb one. You can’t catch yourself looking off in a mirror. The amount of damage you’d need to do to the laws of nature and time… Well, simply put, it’s impossible.

That being said, you decide to try it anyway, a little pointless experiment to pass the time. It is Saturday, after all, so it’s not like you have anything better to do right now. Might as well indulge in a little childish self-amusement.

You place your hands flat on the sink, lock eyes with your reflection, and slowly turn your head until you can barely see the edge of the mirror. You mentally count one… two… three and turn sharply back to the mirror. Your reflection stares back at you. The both of you purse your lips thoughtfully.

You repeat the process: stare, turn, count to three, and turn back as fast as you can. Same result: staring at yourself. You stick out your lip in a pout. You don’t even know why you’re doing this, but it’s frustrating as hell. Maybe it’s because you’re still half asleep. Maybe it’s because you’re just crazy like your parents used to tease. Whatever the case, you decide to try again.

You stare at yourself, seeing all the colors in your irises, the red of the thin veins along the scleras. Slowly, you turn away, finding a point on the wall to focus on. However, instead of turning back immediately, you wait, keeping your head still, your eyes locked on the little nondescript spot. You tell yourself that, if you wait long enough, maybe you can fake it out, trick it into letting you win the game. You smile a bit at your own silly stupidity, but restrain the laughter, trying to maintain focus.

You count the seconds in your head. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. You remember your childhood, games played with friends, games like Hide n’ Seek or The Staring Contest. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. You remember your own competitive nature back then, the desire shared by all children to succeed over your friends, the desire to win at everything you do no matter how pointless or impossible. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. You understand that you feel the same desire now, to reach for something you know is too far away, to try anyway until your fingers wrap around its barely material form. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Even if it means falling over the edge, even if it means going just a smidge too far… the desire to win, in this moment of ticking seconds, is just too great.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.

You snap your head around so fast that it makes your vision blur for a moment. You have to blink the sudden fog from your eyes in order to see. When you do, you see the mirror, same as before and yet completely… different. First, you stare in disbelief, then you let out a long, deflating sigh which, as your lips slowly curl up into a smile, changes to a small, abrupt, slightly shocked laugh.

Your reflection, standing directly opposite you, is still staring off to the side. You can’t believe it. A disembodied image of yourself following movements and actions completely independent of you. You’ve only seen yourself like this in pictures or home videos. It’s unsettling, not to mention completely terrifying, to see it happen in a mirror, something not capable of prerecording images. But, more than anything, it’s unbelievable. You didn’t think this would happen – it’s just a silly little game, a whim, the result of boredom and one foot still in dreamland – but somehow it did exactly what you’d wanted it to do. It’s like finding fossils in your backyard or creating a hair loss solution from blood pressure meds.

You want to tell someone about this, show this to someone, maybe even create a sideshow attraction out of it and become exceedingly famous. You want to let someone know how you played the most impossible game there is and came out on top.

That being said, you’re locked to the sight of yourself looking away, unsure what might happen if you move or speak. Then, as you continue to stare at your imperfect doppelganger, the elation you feel slowly degenerates into something like soft unease. Something isn’t right. It should’ve moved back by now, the delay filled up as the reflection struggled to right itself and restore the natural order of things. But it remains fixed on the spot on the wall, so still that it doesn’t even seem to be breathing. The unease begins to calcify, to cling to the lining of your stomach and slowly weigh it down with growing nausea. What’s going on? Why isn’t it fixing itself? Why won’t it look at you and put everything back the way it was?

As the seconds pass without change, panic begins to bubble inside you. You want to speak, to shout at the reflection, to reach up and smack the glass as if you could wake it up or something, but you remain as fixed as it is, though a slight tremor begins to move through your bones. You shake and sweat, the desire to scream and cry and beg for the figure in the mirror to please, please look at you almost overwhelming. What if it never moved? What if it stayed that way, and every time you looked in a mirror next, all you would see is this sideways glance, unsullied as you brushed your teeth, unbent as you washed your hands, unsaturated as you stepped out of the shower? What if it never leaves this mirror, and all the mirrors in the world would only show the wallpaper behind your back, the towel rack behind your head, the empty space where you should be but will never occupy again like a lifeless ghost?

Then, after nearly twenty straight seconds, it finally moves – slowly turns its head to face you again. Your relief is palpable, heating your skin like a warm blanket. You are about to smile and let out the biggest breath, maybe even laugh and crack some kind of nervous joke to break the excruciating tension, but you stop when you actually see what it looking back at you in the polished glass.

Your reflection has changed but in a subtle, unnerving way. Its eyes are wide and fixed, its forehead smooth, its mouth a straight line – veritably, the complete opposite of the expression you wear now of fearful confusion. This face, combined with the renewed stillness and flawed exactitude, makes it seem more like you’re looking at a doll replica of yourself than your actual reflection. You find yourself wanting to back away, to turn out the light and leave the bathroom as fast as possible, but you’re fixed to the spot, staring at what should be a perfect representation of yourself but is somehow anything but.

Then, to your horror, the eyes of your reflection roll back into its head, leaving only bloodshot whites and fluttering eyelids. The head falls back while the mouth opens in a soundless, screaming gape. Then, with a brief shudder, the body crumples out of frame like a puppet relieved of its strings, the sounds of flesh and bone thud-thud-thudding against the floor clear and perfect.

Suddenly, you are staring at a reflection of the wall behind you.

You feel your heart hammer in your chest. Sweat beads across your skin and makes your hands slick and clammy. You’re shaking all over. Something’s wrong. Something’s gone terribly wrong, and you know that, if you just turn your head, you’ll know exactly what it is. But you’re scared, more scared than you’ve ever been in your whole life.

It’s just a game, you find yourself thinking. It’s just a game. Nothing was supposed to happen, especially not something like that. It’s not even possible, none of it is. It’s just a stupid, harmless little game… right?

Against all better judgment, you slowly, slowly turn your head and look down.

You see your own body lying still and lifeless at your feet.

As the knowledge of what you’ve done invades your mind, as the enormity of it brings you towards complete and total mental collapse, you have one final, cognizant thought: It is just a game, and I guess I won.

Credit To – MercuryCoatedVeins

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.8/10 (631 votes cast)

A Dangerous Man

April 30, 2014 at 12:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.2/10 (365 votes cast)

He came into town on a cold, dry wind
Kicking up dust and blowing sand
The sun dimmed for a moment that day
The howling wind seemed to say
“He has the look of a dangerous man”

His eyes were hot and black as ash
Glaring at those whom he passed
A gun at his hip and a hidden knife
Surely he ended countless lives
Whispers rose like the hiss of snakes
“It’s plain to see, anyone can
He must be a dangerous man”

Not a word he spoke as he came through town
His mouth twisted in a constant frown
His footsteps echoed in an empty street
The locals hide when he came around
They closed windows with a tinny creek
Trying to avoid the dangerous man

He checked the inn where he planned to stay
The keeper shivered from his gaze
The man paid up front and spoke no words
That betray the thoughts of a dangerous man

The locals gathered around and spoke in fear
The Sheriff ran to grab his gear
The Pastor called out to his god
They wailed and cried out for a plan

Save us from this dangerous man

A young man named Johnny held his girl
As she trembled and shook with fear
“If you are a man you’ll confront him dear
To save me from the dangerous man”

So he grabbed his knife and found the Inn
He snuck into a darkened room
And creeped to prepare his mortal sin

When the bed he had in sight
He stabbed the body 20 times
But when he turned on the light
It was not the dangerous man

He shook and screamed in his fright
He had killed a man without a fight
A crowd was coming, no room for flight
Fearing the law and the people’s might
He leapt from a dangerous height
His bones cracked, his blood ran out
And he died damning a dangerous man

The sheriff stood by the dead
And removed the hat from his head
“Two lives he has claimed today
How many more will he slay?
We must stand up before we lay
At the feet of a dangerous man”

A crowd gathered round to chant and cheer
With torches and knives they came right near
The old in, where it seemed too clear
That inside slept a dangerous man

The keeper cried as they threw the torch
He choked back a sob and tears

And watched it burn his life and home
“You must be wrong! I was alone
I couldn’t let him stay inside
Though it may hurt my pride
I simply fear a dangerous man”

A scream was heard from the Inn
The keeper shouted “it’s my wife!
“I thought she left, but she’s trapped inside!

If you don’t help her, I’ll end my life!
A victim of the dangerous man”

“Liar!” the people shouted
“You work for him, and let him go
Now you want us to burn and die
We will punish you for your lie”
They tied him up with ropes and chains
And threw him into the flames
He screamed out loud and long
As his flesh melted and turned black
chocking he let out his final words
“I am not a dangerous man”

Confusion grew in the street
They had burned the inn to dust
But nothing was gained from the bust
Someone must face the wrath
Of a people ready to fight

A man was picked, his job to greet
The stranger he was first to meet
They chained him to the rock hard ground
And beat him beneath their feet
Till all that’s left was a bloody mound

All for befriending the dangerous man

The sheriff too incurred their wrath
He had failed to halt the path
That caused the pain that occurred that day

“You did it too, I’m not to blame!”
He shouted out, but was ignored
Some stood by and fought to death
Cursing former friends with last breaths
The sheriff was cut up in bits
An hour he suffered beneath their knives
As he screamed and tried to fight

His head was posted on a spike
A warning to the dangerous man

But in their haste to fix the wrong
The people missed a problem that grew
The flame spread on a wind that blew
The smoke rose and blocked the sun
All the people tried to run
But they burned and chocked on smoke
Till they were dead, every one
Without the help of the dangerous man

A stranger stood, feet in blood
Which soaked right through skin and ash
Bodies lay on the ground
Mistakes that worked like a plan
He stared at what he found
With the black eyes of a dangerous man

Credit To – Eric AMBM

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.2/10 (365 votes cast)


April 1, 2014 at 11:00 PM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.1/10 (1043 votes cast)

You lay in your bed quietly. Your window is open, a light breeze flowing through. You stare up at the ceiling, watching time pass by. Why is it so hard to sleep? you silently wonder, tapping your heel impatiently, waiting for oblivion to overcome you. You haven’t been able to sleep for ages, and it’s been almost 3 days since you got some shut-eye.

Laying here, your senses are heightened, the quiet rustling and hooting of the occasional owl ringing in hypersound. Your eyes have fully adjusted to the dark, allowing you to see every detail in the bedroom around you.

You suddenly hear a creak. Thinking it’s just your dumb dog walking around at night, you push your head under your pillow and groan.

Another creak, followed by a crash. You jump up, grabbing the gun from your bedside table. “Who the hell is there?!!” You shout, aiming around the room wildly.

There is something out your window. It crawls through the hole, its face white, with singed black brows and a bloody red smile. Its hair is long, black, and matted. It wears a white hoodie, smeared with black substance you can only guess to be blood. It rushes in on you, tackling and ramming you into the bed, hissing 4 words into your ear:


You look up into the things eyes, and you push yourself up, staring at it. “Who the hell do you think you are?! Barging into my room like this?!”

The thing stares at you. “Wait.. what?”

You stare at it angrily. “And why the FUCK did you tell me to go to sleep?! I mean, for all I know, I might have just been about to drift off, but NOOOO, YOU have to go show up!”

It starts to walk to the window. “I-I’ll just be on my way.. heh–” He dives out the window, running into the night.

You plop the gun onto your desk and lay back down on the bed, sighing and speaking aloud. “Jeezus.. People these days.”

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.1/10 (1043 votes cast)

The Origin 2

April 1, 2014 at 10:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.1/10 (150 votes cast)

January 7th 2007
I have recently discovered the story of a haunting in an old house. A poltergeist, it would seem. My fellow paranormal hunter associates were discussing the matter at lunch, saying how walkers by and neighbours heard muffled screams and growls coming the house, even though it has been abondened for four years. I naturally took interest in this ghastly-going on and asked the where-a-bouts of this haunted establishment. My friend said it was in Liverpool, an old house by a bunch of newsagents and smallish homes. I pondered the sceptic explanations for the stated paranormal events, and the ghostly. I shall do some digging about this house tomorrow.

January 8th, 2007
The fair amount of information I found strongly points to ghostly explanation of this manor. I managed to find out it used to belong to a once wealthy man, who once ran a popular and successful business. Mr Walter W. Parkerson. WWP for short. He married his beautiful wife, Mary. They bought the house after Walters phone shop opened, and two months later had a baby girl. However, when this girl reached two, Mary left Walter, due to his rather un-hinged personality. Walter was an angry man, and snapped whenever something went wrong. He was a loose cannon, bursting in a frenzied rage, unpredictable, scary, sometimes. Mary didn’t want to live a life like this, and left him with her child. Walter tried his best to look after his daughter, but also tried to commit suicide multiple times. He became very un-sociable and bitter, and eventually, he died of unknown causes.
Muffled growls and screams coming from this house suggest the trapped soul of WWP, and I intend to explore the house in a couple of days, first, however, I am to see his daughter, Jenny, tomorrow.

January 9th, 2007
I found out a lot more about WWP today, and went to Jenny’s house and discussed her troubled childhood. She is a fine looking young lady, long sandy hair, healthy body, and a pretty pale face. She seemed very nervous when discussing her father.
“Hello.” I had greeted. “Please, take a seat.”
“Th-, Thank you.” She smiled, sitting as she did so.
“I hear you grew up in the house that has become a paranormal phenomenon?”
“Y, yes, actually.”
“You lived with your father, after your mother left, may I ask how that felt?”
“He was a lost soul, tragic really. He loved me, and my mum, deep down he did, but he had a hard time showing it. Ever since my mum left he slowly went angrier and scarier every day, to the point where whenever he walked past I would flinch.”
She was pulling a half smile now.
“It also says on the newspaper reports that your father tried to commit,” I found it awkward to discuss this in front of her. “Suicide.” I gulped.
“Yes, 3 times actually. It was terrible. The first time tried to use chemicals, but opposed to killing him, it caused him great suffering, it nearly blinded him, and caused his skin to turn into a sickly green colour. The second was drug overdose, which, as you could probably deduce, also failed. It ruined his vocal cords and caused his voice to be deep and throaty, blackening his lungs, and his heart. The third, was hanging. He would have finished off the job too if I hadn’t stopped him in time. It severely injured his neck, bounding him to his bed, shouting out his demands, and would only come out if clutching his cane, stomping and clacking his way downstairs.”
“That must have been terrible.” I added.
“It was, Every day he slowly turned more and more into a monster. My friends called him ‘The Big Bad Dad’, and I had to agree with them. He was barely human anymore, more like a living, walking corpse! I would always try and sneak out the front door to meet friends and actually enjoy my life, instead of caring for my monstrous father, but he always heard me. He’d roar ‘What are you doing?’ I scramble the key into the lock, desperately turning and twisting it. ‘I’ll get you for this, wretched girl!’ My panic would be un-imaginable, as I heard his clacking and clumping down stairs, calling down his threats, and when he finally came down he would…”
She was fighting back tears, hands clenched, head turned. She rubbed a big scar on her arm, and I knew that sentence needn’t be finished.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. Thank you so much for all your help.” I smiled hopefully.
“You’re welcome.” She then tried to change the subject. “I’m going on a date with my boyfriend tommorow.”
“How lovely. I’m sure whoever he is, is a very lucky man.”
She smiled. She showed me out and I ran over my notes. This story was getting deeper and deeper and more scary and exciting for the minute. I am to stay at the house tomorrow for the night, and monitor activity, if WWP does haunt his house or not, I’ll know.

January 10th 2007
As I am writing this, I am observing the house in front of me. It was large and dusty, and made up of red, fading, and crumbling bricks. It has a long, pointing tower at the top, but it is not that high. It has curved, dirty windows, 3 of them, all boarded up with rusted metal and planks of wood. A truly fascinating home. I am to step inside now.
As I stepped inside, the door creaked and dust consumed my sight. The corridor is narrow and the wallpaper is pale and peeled, to my right is a twisted, broken staircase. The house is dark, but not too dark, and a flashlight would fix everything. I shall explore now.
I have examined the whole bottom floor, and it is like a whole scavenger hunt of stories. In the kitchen, are smashed and foul smelling vials, which most likely held the chemicals that WWP had acquired. The cupboards were open and layered with dust, cobwebs and rats resided in it like parasites on human flesh. The surfaces were grimy and greasy, and the table was one feather weight away from falling apart into splinters. In the living room there was a dangling, twisted rope, the one that failed to kill WWP. The armchairs are beaten and battered, and the small television is smashed beyond repair. In the front room, there was nothing except an old pill bottle, and a dead rat, which had presumably met its fate eating the remaining pills, I shall explore upstairs now.
Oh my god. Oh my good god. My imagination is either over-active, or this house is indeed haunted. As I reached the top of the stairs, I turned round to look in the first of the three rooms, and just for a second, I saw a figure, illuminated by a dangling, dim light-bulb above. Brief, as its appearance may have been, it matched the description of WWP greatly. It had revolting, decaying green skin. It looked like a hellish mixture of dark green water-colours and vomit. It had, from what I can remember, twisted glasses and broken lenses, but no eyes to speak of. If anything, although this is a crude example, like Dr. Bunsen Honeydew out the Muppets! But sickly and deathlike. My heart is thudding in my chest, my breath fast and desperate. I shall see it again, I must!
I walk in into the room farthest to my left, and there is nothing except a boarded up window, a badly lit light-bulb and a phone. The phone itself, is covered in dust. I will walk towards it to get a better…
What was that. I heard a creek of the floor come from outside. My heart is beating faster, whether out of excitement or fear, I do not know. I walk slowly to the edge of the door, I shall look now.
Shit! He was there! He was right fucking there! He was walking slowly towards the room in the corridor. I got a better glimpse of him this time, he was wearing a purplish, blackish robe. I have leapt into the corner of this room, shaking and trembling as I write this. I hear another creak, oh no, oh no.
My god, he is walking in. I should be screaming and running, but I am frozen, struggling to breath. He is walking in towards me, no fear of me at all.
He’s raising a hand now, towards the light, I can barely write this. Oh god. I need to survive. People need to know.
CRAP! He’s just busted the light! Its complete darkness except his outline now, and a strange glue blow is forming by his hand.
He, is, he’s staring right at me. I can’t write. My writing is all jumbled. I cannot see my paper. I can’t see him. What, what’s happening? He’s breathing in my face. God, his breath is terrible. It’s a foul stench of decay and m ould.
Wh, what? My eyes are drooping, I’m, I’m falling asleep! I can’t, I can’t write much longer, he’s, he’s going towards the phone now. He’s putting his hand on the phone, the blue electricity forming around it, oh God. The phones working again now. What’s he going to do with that phone, his fingers are dialing, he’s ringing someone, who is he ringing, I can hear a muffled ‘hello’ from the phone, I can’t write, I can’t…


So you’re making out with ur honey, Jenny, and the phone rings, you answer it, and the voice is, ‘What are you doing with my daughter…’


VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 8.1/10 (150 votes cast)

The Wrong Room

April 1, 2014 at 8:00 AM
VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 9.0/10 (2340 votes cast)

You get back to your apartment after a long day’s work and you want to get inside and rest. You were about to pull out your keys and unlock the door, but you notice it’s open. Turning the doorknob and stepping inside, You notice something different. You stand in the doorway trying to figure it out. then it hits you. this isn’t your room. As you turn and leave, something catches your eye. There is a man hunched over a dish of flesh, eating it with his bare hands, tearing into it as a wild animal would with its prey. Red dripped down the side of his mouth, and the smell that emanated from it was sickening. You were paralysed by the sight.
Unconsciously, you start cover your nose and mouth. This accidentally bumps your elbow against the doorway. You freeze. He stopped eating there was something wrong. Then he looked up and started searching for the source of the noise.
His eyes scanned the room till they found you.
Your legs start moving on their own, and you find yourself running, running away from that room, and the horrors within it.


The man silently stands up, locks the door, sits back down, grabs another slice of pizza, and mutters quietly to himself:
“Crazy vegans”.

Credit To – Walrus King

VN:F [1.9.22_1171]
Rate This Pasta
Rating: 9.0/10 (2340 votes cast)

This website contains fictional content that may be too scary for younger readers. Please verify that you are either at least 18 years of age or have parental permission before proceeding.