The Mirror Game

February 12, 2017 at 12:00 AM

The next time you’re alone in your house, go into your room and turn off your lights. Stand in front of your mirror and light a white candle, let the match burn until the flames are about to touch your fingers. If it goes out before this point, leave your room and turn on every light in your house. Lock any doors that can be locked, bar them up, do anything. Leave the house and do not return until morning. You are not safe.

If the match does not go out on its own, blow it out and set it aside. It is time for the next step. Hold your candle in both hands, and keep it at chest level. You are to remain quiet for one whole minute, and keep your eyes closed. Do not open them. If the wax drips and burns your hands, do not make a sound. Count down in your head. When you reach one, stare into the mirror. Lock eyes with yourself. Whisper out one thing you can’t live without, this is your safe word. Don’t worry about your reflection, how its lips don’t move when you talk, the way it’s staring back at you. Next, utter the thing you desire most, this will be your end goal.

Look down at the candle in your hands, “The light in my hands is my ally, and so it shall protect me, and so I shall do for it.” You must whisper out. Blink once, look back up at the mirror. Resume immediate eye contact with your reflection. No matter what you see, keep eye contact and don’t blink. You must do this for one minute, but this time counting up. Don’t get distracted by your doppelgänger’s horribly disfigured face, the razor sharp teeth in its mouth that’s curled into a terrifying grimace at your betrayal, choosing the calming glow of the candle over it.

Ignore the urge to blink, the burning in your eyes like searing hot needles carving away at you. Once you reach sixty, and only when you reach sixty, you may blink. Now you must complete the last step. You must say goodbye. Keep eye contact, and say “You must leave now, or else the light will expel you.” Of course, your reflection will not go immediately, but don’t worry. This should always work. If not, follow the same steps as before and leave the house. Don’t come back. You must now fulfil your end of the bargain, assuming the candle has kept you safe thus far.
Do not blow the candle out. Stay awake all night if you have to, wait until it burns on its own. When the candle finally dies out, sleep. The next morning, open your door and the thing you need will come to you within a week.

If you happen to look away at any point not specified in this ritual, or blink, you may see the shadows behind you, crawling in your peripheral vision. The thing in the mirror will know. A dreadful crackling will fill your ears, and you must blow out the candle immediately. Do not say goodbye, do not look back to the reflection and most certainly; do not look into its eyes. It’ll smile at you, whisper your name. Close your eyes and pray, pray to God that you may get through this night. Speak out your safe word three times, and sleep.

You might be wondering what the safe word is for, right? If you fail, they will take something from you. You best have chosen wisely, because after all, you can’t live without it, can you?

Credit: 666ItsFinnley

Admissions

January 27, 2017 at 12:00 AM

Oil portraits of dignitaries and ancient politicians had been hung in a boastful collection on the encircling walls, a burgundy dark enough to impart arrogance to the unsure and confidence to those of likened wills, the marble pillars and brass railings emitting an astounding gleam from all sides, and Stewart felt assured to be in the proper place.

It had only taken him a few minutes to find it…

Two others were waiting, another man and a woman, sitting on oaken chairs with cushioned seats. The woman’s blonde hair reminded him of wheat, her face evoking the sun rising over the fields. She didn’t say anything to him, but seemed to be gauging his ability, his deftness, grinning slightly with her piercing green eyes.

The man, however, arose from the chair and held out his hand—a large fellow, with a full beard, of apparent Latin American heritage, perhaps Iberian. “Welcome, Mr. Unitas,” he said vestedly. “We’ll be with you in just a moment. Sarah here has had her appointment postponed for over an hour.”

“Oh?” Stewart replied. The man nodded, adjusting his charcoal-grey knit sweater vest, and gazed regretfully upon the woman, evidently another recruit seeking entry into the prestigious club.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to stand until it’s time for her to go in.” At the same moment a black woman in a black dress opened the large metal doors at the back of the hall, exchanging a brief communicative look with the man in the vest. He turned to smile at Stewart, his face showing not a hint of blush, and soon the engagement ensued—Stewart found himself awkwardly sitting in the second chair, still warm from the hour’s delay.

“Must be busy this time of year, eh?” Stewart asked the man, who had yet to retake the seat. The presumptive member of the Bay Area Betterment & Health Society again confirmed, and turned to select one of the pamphlets piled upon an end table of miniscule height.

He handed one to Stewart. It was a single folded page on thick glossy paper, showing a picture of Golden Gate Park and what seemed to be the large group photograph of a club gathering.

Stewart thanked him for the informative material, though he had already been well-versed regarding the scientific organization, from its four-hundred year history to speculation upon its upcoming plans and charity work.

“Oh, that sounds swell,” he mimicked eagerly, affecting himself to be naively unaware rather than firmly convinced of his own indubitable qualifications.

He had heard online, and more helpfully from a friend he knew on a forum, the club only spoke in official terms behind closed doors to facilitate for its members more liberated discussion. Great intellectuals had been initiated, and great intellectuals had been made.

It said so in the pamphlet.

Laughter came from the closed door, and Stewart tried not to think how it would be very nice if Sarah, the girl before him, would also be admitted, so he could get to know her more. As if getting accepted would need more benefits to persuade, to pique!

This was the place to be, said them all, what one must do in order to become a full-fledged leader of progressive society. And Stewart had always wanted to be a vampire.

He scanned over the paper, and even the alluring language came off to him as exclusive. Stewart could not hold back his smile any longer, and the other man noticed.

“I’ve actually read your file, my good man,” he said, stroking his thick hairy chin. Stewart awaited the completed placation and once they had met eyes the club member continued by whispering, bending his head closer to him, “I think we would be fools not to let you in!”

His heart kicked and his fist clenched in excitement. Stewart’s smile grew, showing brightened teeth, and he could only mutter, “Thank you. I am a big admirer of what you do here.”

“Is that so?” asked the man, finding a kindred spirit.

“Yes,” Stewart answered. “I think this is exactly where I want to take my skills. I’m looking forward to seeing how I can help and contribute to the club’s furthering success.”

The older man nodded, smiling also. “We’ll see what we can do with you.”

Thoughts of the future flowed through Stewart’s field of vision, unable to be contained. The high class society, a company of gentlemen and the finest edge of female colleagues, using advanced techniques to extract untarnished hemoglobin and innumerable additional nutrients which had been enabling their superior race to thrive without the brutal need for harvesting, enslaving, or killing anyone, or anything, not even pigs!

Stewart knew all this. And he knew he belonged here, in this association of immortals moving the world forward. Especially if people like Sarah would be among them, and he withheld the rushing desire to envision her transformed, unleashed, beyond the standards of commonplace beauty.

It would be truly empowering to finally live and work as he wanted, and here was the goal, at last!

The door opened and the secretary kindly said his name. “Mister Unitas? They’ll see you now.”

His heart quickened, perhaps for the last time as a feeble primate, and the man in the vest wished him good luck while Stewart walked to the door, buttoning the top button of his coat.

“We’re sorry to make you wait,” she noted effectively. The secretary, upon closer vicinity, was also an ostensible initiate. The women showed signs almost instantaneously, and more dramatically than the men, according to his research. Stewart worried his new appearance would be overshadowed by those of fellow neonates. It could take decades before the distinction of his vampiric training could be portrayed by looks alone. But he marched on, nonetheless.

“Right this way,” she said, smirking, and Stewart followed her to a set of double doors, which he hardly saw open before he realized he was inside the room.

Against the opposite wall sat four elders in shining judicial robes behind a normal white plastic table. Stewart made sure to catch each of their gazes once the doors had been closed behind him.

But there was a fifth individual standing next to the door, and a sixth. Stewart’s pulse fluttered once he recognized the golden-grain hair, now bolstering the pale mystique of her form and face alike. The green eyes sank into him, as if they were aimed and fired.

The other member stood well higher than the average man, meaning he must have been a guard or security worker of some kind, but Stewart didn’t know why Sarah remained in the room when her interview had hardly preceded his.

“Welcome, Mr. Unitas,” said one of the elders, one of three balding men with stonework cheeks and cropped hair of glistening pearly silver. He smiled magnanimously, but Stewart felt his voice carried with it no trace of impression.

“We’re sorry,” the speaker continued, “but we are afraid we can cannot offer you a position with our organization at this time.”

When Stewart had just begun reeling he noticed the guard and Sarah both approaching from behind, from opposite sides, and before he could make his case the larger man’s grip had smothered his mouth, quelling all protest, and the youngest member of the Bay Area Betterment & Health Society revealed freshly protruded canine teeth before jabbing them into Stewart’s neck, playfully pausing while their eyes were partially locked, decisive jowls vicing quivering flesh. She pulled back sharply and his liveliness gushed away for her to drink, to serve as an irrefutable pledge of loyalty.

As she sucked from the struggling neck the others in the room cheered and clapped, remembering the blissful intensity of their own first kills. The lone matron of the panel reached for the appropriate ink stamp and markedly punched it upon the girl’s papers, printing sternly in bold crimson letters.

ADMISSION GRANTED

Credit: Edmund Gray-Graham

A Question of Faith

December 11, 2016 at 12:00 AM

You know what would be delightful? To maybe watch television, or just sit around the house, or take a ride in the car without my father bringing up religion.

Father is a master at turning any conversation into a lecture about faith. Anything he reads, sees or hears in the media is a prompt for him to hold forth on spirituality. Good God, I’ve even seen the man be inspired by weather patterns.

Know that we are not alone, and that there exists a power greater than anything we can conceive of on this Earth, he says.

Know that the courage of faith is a bravery surpassing that of the assembled armies of the Earth, he says.

Faith will be tested, he says. Faith will be rewarded, he says.

And says, and says, and says.

Please don’t misunderstand. I am a believer. I have been brought up in the faith, and strive to adhere to it. However, I find it increasingly difficult to be a blind follower. For if we fear to ask questions of faith, is that not an admission of doubt? An acknowledgement that our faith – our rock, our shield – cannot withstand the slightest scrutiny?

Father will have none of this, and our exchanges escalate into shouts and angry tears.

“Know that we have been blessed beyond measure,” he says, a pointed finger trembling inches from my face. “Never forget, boy.”

Still, my questions persist. Lately, they grow in number.

Forgive me. I don’t mean to be so critical of my father. He is unshakable in his belief, and that can be inspiring. I think of my mother’s recent passing. A man less devout might have abandoned his convictions, strayed from his path. Not my father.

I’ll also admit that, to those not ceaselessly subjected to his spoutings, father is quite charming. The impression he gives is not that of a wild-eyed zealot. He’s patiently persuasive, and has a certain charisma. Several people in our town have come ‘round to his way of thinking, and they include some of our more notable residents – elected officials, captains of industry, members of law enforcement.

Good friends to have.

I can see many of them now, as father and I enter the clearing in the woods behind our home. Some avert their eyes; they’re new. Others offer a friendly wave and a warm smile.

Father is at it again, telling me about the demands of faith and the comfort that awaits after our earthly trials have ceased. A comfort no less than eternity!

All this talk about religion goes a long way toward explaining why my sister is bound upon the altar.

It doesn’t make what I’ve been told I have to do any easier.

Credit: Inscribe

I Went to Vote Early, but I Stumbled into the Wrong Building

December 9, 2016 at 12:00 AM

So, I voted today. Before I get started, I’d like to point out that I’m not politically savvy or community-oriented. That’s probably how I wound up in this mess. I’ve voted once before, but that was on election day, and I had a friend with me. This time around, I wanted to get it out of the way, but I had never voted early before. I didn’t know how to go about doing it all; so, I decided that a search engine would have to be my guide.

Have you ever tried to search for something on your phone, but accidentally opened Facebook instead? I have a habit of doing that, and this time was no different. I even typed my inquiry into the Facebook search bar before realizing my mistake. I typed in “vote early”. Just as I was about to close the app and open my web browser, I noticed one of the results. It was an event with the title “Battered Grove – VOTE EARLY BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE” – Battered Grove being the town I live in. I could have left it and went about my business, but I was curious.

I clicked on the event only to be greeted with little information. One tidbit that stood out was a disclaimer stating that the event page was for “Clan Members Only”. Other than that, the page had a date, time, and place for voting; November 4th, 8am – 8:45am, 54 Marion Road. Despite the weird disclaimer and small voting window, I assumed the event page was there to inform last minute voters like myself. I knew the fourth was my last chance to vote early in my state and it was the only day I could do so because of work restrictions. I saved the info into my phone and set an early alarm for that day.

Fast forward to the day in question – today. I got up early, went about my morning routine, and headed off. My phone’s GPS informed me the address was only twelve minutes away. Wonderful, but about six minutes in, I realized that it was taking me to Forsaken Falls.

In Battered Grove, there is a large area of abandoned living space that the locals have dubbed Forsaken Falls. It’s not its own town, but everyone treats it like it is. It’s comprised of a bunch of old, decrepit houses too dangerous to live in, but too ancient to tear down. Many years ago, a history buff by the name of Molly Winthrop fought with the town over their historical values. After months of bickering, documentation, and surveying the land, she won. All the buildings in that area were deemed historical monuments and thus could not be demolished.

Everyone knows the story, and usually, people stay away from that part of town. There’s no reason to go out there unless you want to see a bunch of eyesores taking up space in an otherwise beautiful town. So why, then, was early voting taking place there?

I brushed off the thought and drove out to the address. I found myself at the old town hall. This was probably the only building in Forsaken Falls deserving of the title ‘historical monument’. Still, it was abandoned. I wondered if I was the victim of some sort of prank. My car was the only one there. I was about to drive away when I noticed a small sign on the building, just above the back entrance. In crude red lettering, it said “Voting Downstairs”. Maybe I was in the right place after all.

I looked at my phone and saw it was a little after 8:30am. I quickly rushed into the building to make it in time before the polls closed. More crude signs were inside, leading me down into the town hall’s depths. It was odd, but I didn’t question it; I just wanted to get the voting done.

After rushing down a few flights of stairs, I wound up in what looked like an auditorium. I waltzed in, ready to cast my vote for the presidential election. That’s when I noticed that something wasn’t right.

I will explain the layout of the voting area for those of you who haven’t voted before. The voting area itself is usually roped off with a designated entrance and exit beside each other. To your left, a person at a small podium helps with questions or concerns you might have; it is very helpful for first-time voters. To the right and left of the voting area are two long tables. The one on the left is where the town staff sits and is cut up into precincts. You must go to the person assigned to your precinct, as they have the list of registered voters for that area and will hand you your ballot. The table to the right has sealed envelopes that contain the ballots after voting is complete. The middle-man is straight ahead – the voting booths. The ones I know are small, chest-high tables separated by makeshift drapes – like how patients are separated in hospitals.

Everything was set up as normal, but here’s the weird part. The ‘town staff’ were all wearing red cloaks. And instead of precincts, they were divided by faction. The podium had a strange symbol carved into it, and the ‘drapes’ separating the booths were of a gross, dark red hue. Something was off, but I concluded that I was the dumb one, having never voted early before. So, I decided to go along with it.

I walked past the podium and directly to the cloaked figure assigned to Faction 5, knowing I lived in Precinct 5. Instead of asking for my address or name, the person simply handed me my ballot. I gave them a weird look and took my place at an empty booth. That is when I realized that I was not in the right place.

The ballot was normal, aside from its text. In place of the presidential nominees, there were candidates for “Leader of the Clan”. The only name I remember is Abbadon. There were other positions to vote on, the nominees of which I had not only never heard of, but I could barely pronounce their names. I flipped the ballot over to reveal the questions. This side seemed normal, but instead of ‘Questions’, they were called ‘Queries’.

On a ballot, there are various questions to vote on. If enough people advocate for a specific proposition, your state’s Senate will vote for it. At least, that’s how I’ve come to understand it. On the ballot itself, the Question displays the outline of a proposed policy followed by a summary. The summary will read something like “If you vote YES on Question 3, this will prohibit farmers from using chemical-based pesticides on their crops”. I usually skip to the summary or pass the Questions altogether. These ‘Queries’, however, were impossible to overlook.

I will divulge to you the two Queries that shocked me the most. They weren’t worded exactly like this, but you’ll get the gist of it:

-Query 3-
The proposed law would allow high-ranking clan members to acquire new disciples through the local community via force. Children captured under the grounds of this law will be trained in the ways of the Clan. A potential cure for underpopulated factions.

A YES VOTE would give Clan paladins the right to kidnap civilian children.

A NO VOTE would make no change in current laws pertaining to civilian children.

-Query 4-

The proposed law would allow any Clan member to murder a civilian on sight for crimes against nature. Humanity’s destruction of the earth is deemed reason enough for the ultimate punishment. Humans will bleed for their insolence.

A YES VOTE would give Clan members the right to kill any civilian above the age of 18.

A NO VOTE would make no change in current laws pertaining to civilians.

My heart sunk after reading Query 4. What had I stumbled into?

Realizing rather quickly that I was somewhere I shouldn’t be, I slowly backed away from my ballot and walked away from the voting booths. The cloaked figures watched me. I think that’s when they too realized that I was out-of-place because they moved in my direction. I ran as fast as I could to get up those flights of stairs and out to my car.

Luckily, I made it to my car unscathed, but the cloaked figures weren’t far behind. I looked behind me for a split second and noticed the town hall doors swing open. I panicked and dropped my keys. I heard one of them scream, followed by the unpleasant sound of several people running. I thought I was done for.

I picked up my keys, get into my car, and drive off before they could get to me. I booked it out of Forsaken Falls and back to the comfort of civilization. I was shaken, but I was free.

I called the cops shortly after arriving home and told them everything. They said they would check it out. About an hour later, they called back and said that they found absolutely nothing at the old town hall. No trace of anyone being there in years. The man on the phone even accused me of trying to prank them. I assured him I wasn’t and said that I spoke the truth; he didn’t seem to believe me and hung up.

And that’s it. That’s the extent of what happened to me, today. I would have never expected a twisted cult to put parameters in place for proper voting, much less that I would somehow end up in the middle of it. The thing that gets me is that they’re still out there, doing whatever it is that they do. And if those ‘laws’ of theirs are passed, Battered Grove will be terrorized by them. I only hope that, at the very least, they didn’t get a good look at me. I don’t want to be a victim of Query 4.

Credit: Christopher Maxim

The Holder of Democracy

November 8, 2016 at 12:00 AM

In any city, in any country where free elections are routinely held, go to a place of voting during that city’s Election Day. Walk up to the voting stand and tell any election official “I seek the Holder of Democracy”. If the official laughs or looks bewildered, then you will be forcibly removed from the place of voting by any security personnel guarding the premises. The Holder does not deem you worthy enough to attempt his test and it would be best for you not to press your luck.

Should the official stand up and walk away, follow him or her. You will be lead to a door in the wall, far removed from the main polling area. It will look mundane in every way, but looks can be very deceiving. The official will tell you to enter. Should you wish to withdrawal from your quest, then this will be your last opportunity to leave. Make your intentions clear and get out.

If you choose to continue the trial, open the door. You will find a very miniscule room. Make sure to duck, for the ceiling is low and it would not do for you to injure yourself this early in the test. Once you’ve entered, shut the door and make sure it clicks. Don’t bother trying to open it after this point-you won’t like what you see. Now, walk across the room, where you will find a table, a chair and two pipes. One of the pipes comes in from the ceiling and opens up above the table while the second pipe opens up next to the chair and goes into the floor. Take the time to mentally prepare yourself; the test will not begin until you choose to take your seat.

As you sit down, you will feel a manacle clamp around both of your legs. The moment the manacle has clicked onto your leg, a single piece of paper will fall from the pipe. Pick it up and you will see that the paper is actually a ballot. There will be written text, mainly in an unknown and undecipherable letter system with superficial similarities to ancient Greek. However, to your excitement you will see that your name is clearly written on the top of the ballot. Make sure to note whether the ballot was a vote for you or your opponent. Once you’ve done this, deposit it in the pipe leading into the floor so it can be removed from the room. More and more ballots will come out of the pipe at a quicker and quicker pace. You will need to count the ballots as quickly as possible, but it can be done with a mundane, but strenuous, level of effort.

As you hold the second ballot, you will start to feel a strange sensation. At first, it will be a weak and easily dismissed idea. However, as the ballots start to rapidly fall from the pipe, this sensation will become stronger and stronger. Vivid images of disease, famine and poverty will start shooting across your mind. You will then see yourself sitting on a grand throne; with fields of wheat, people working and children playing, bustling trade, hospitals and every other measure of human prosperity in the background. You will think that you can become the person in the throne, the promoter of human well-being and the destroyer of misery and suffering.

If you’ve been counting correctly, you will see that you are gradually slipping in this vote, and that your opponent is getting a greater and greater percentage of the ballot. You will desire nothing more than to stop counting, and declare yourself the winner. After all, you can solve the problems of the world; who cares what the ballots say? You must resist these urges with every fiber of your being; it is this exact type of hubris that will one day bring the 538 Objects together.

The ballots coming out of the pipe will eventually start to level off and finally stop. If you actually continued to count the ballots, then you will have narrowed the gap considerably but will still have lost the election by a small number of votes. A deep sense of sadness will permeate throughout your heart and soul. You will still believe that you can save the world; all you need to do is fudge the numbers a bit. For the love of all that you hold holy, fight this sensation.

Soon, you will hear the door open and a man will enter. He will be wearing a suit and tie, with jelled-back hair and a slightly-unsettling smile plastered across his face. The man will demand that you tell him the results of the election. Immediately and truthfully tell him the number of ballots that were marked for you and for your opponent, no matter how much you want to lie.

One of three things will happen. If you do not answer in time or made an error while counting, then the manacles around your fleet will slowly ensnare your body and compress you until you have been thoroughly crushed. Consider yourself lucky, for the man will have no hard feelings about your honest mistake. The pain will be temporary and your soul will be free to leave.

If you cannot resist the temptation and falsely claim that you are the victor, then the man will jam you into the pipe leading into the ground. When you fall through, you will see that you are in a room exactly like the one you were forcibly removed from. You will have thirty seconds to make one of three choices. You could choose to sit down to take the test for eternity. However, please note that this time around, the ballots will be much hotter, sharper and jagged. Alternatively, you could do nothing. When thirty seconds have passed, you will feel a splitting pain in your chest as your soul is destroyed and you cease to exist. If, however, you are truly daring, you can take the third option: opening the door. As you step out, you will see a world that looks like a subverted vision of your kingly images. Where you once saw grain, you will see miles of cracked and dried up fields. Where you once saw prosperous businesses and hospitals, you will see boarded up and badly dilapidated buildings. Where you once saw people working and children playing will be dead and mangled bodies as far as the eye can see. Some of these were political dissidents, brave and just individuals who were murdered for resisting tyranny. Others were rivals for power, but most were simply innocents destroyed by the megalomania of their leader. Specifically, the demonesque figure clad solely in black that sits on a throne of skulls in the dead center of this macabre scene. This figure is you, or what would have eventually become of you had your attempts at election usurpation succeeded.

You believed that you could promote human prosperity by going against the election results, ignoring the will of the people and assuming total power. However, the only thing your decision promoted was despotism, corruption and murder. For your decisions, you will be forced to live for all of eternity in the hell of your own design.

However, if you respected the will of the majority and gave the man in the room the correct number of votes, then the manacles will shatter at your feet. As you start to stand, a final translucent gold ballot will fall from the upper pipe. Quickly grab it and hold onto it tightly. The man will then approach you and extend his hand. Firmly grasp it and pump it up, then down. The man will then start speaking. He will describe in vivid detail every democratic uprising, the destruction of every tyrant’s regime and the inherent pride of every election. It would be best for you to leave at this point; the man wants your vote and these campaign speeches have been known to drag on for eternity. Make your way to the door, open it (it will be safe to do so), walk out and shut it until you hear a click.

The gold ballot you took from the room is one of 538 Objects. It is perhaps the most precious of the Objects, but know that it is useless unless joined by its kin.

Credit: E.A.D

Creepypasta

Submission Status

WE ARE CURRENTLY IN AN OPEN SUBMISSION PERIOD. Submissions will close again on February 20th, 2017. PLEASE READ THE FAQ AND ANY RECENT ANNOUNCEMENTS BEFORE ATTEMPTING TO SUBMIT YOUR PASTA OR SENDING CONTACT REQUESTS.


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    • [do_widget id="wpp-4"]
  • [do_widget_area morph-main-widgets]
    • [do_widget id="wprp-3"]
    • [do_widget id="text-49"]
    • [do_widget id="text-50"]
    • [do_widget id="categories-7"]
    • [do_widget id="taxonomy_dropdown_widget-7"]
    • [do_widget id="text-51"]
  • [do_widget_area orphaned_widgets_1]
    • [do_widget id="wpfp-users_favorites"]
    • [do_widget id="wpfp-most_favorited_posts"]
  • [do_widget_area orphaned_widgets_2]
    • [do_widget id="text-47"]
    • [do_widget id="text-48"]
    • [do_widget id="rss-3"]
  • [do_widget_area orphaned_widgets_3]
    • [do_widget id="text-52"]
  • [do_widget_area orphaned_widgets_4]
    • [do_widget id="categories-6"]
    • [do_widget id="taxonomy_dropdown_widget-5"]
  • [do_widget_area sidebar]
    • [do_widget id="wprp-2"]
    • [do_widget id="text-24"]
    • [do_widget id="text-22"]
    • [do_widget id="text-9"]
    • [do_widget id="text-43"]
    • [do_widget id="categories-2"]
    • [do_widget id="taxonomy_dropdown_widget-6"]
    • [do_widget id="text-44"]
    • [do_widget id="text-38"]
    • [do_widget id="recent-posts-3"]
    • [do_widget id="text-53"]
    • [do_widget id="links-5"]
    • [do_widget id="archives-4"]
  • [do_widget_area widgets_for_shortcodes]
    • [do_widget id="wpp-5"]
    • [do_widget id="text-46"]
  • [do_widget_area wp_inactive_widgets]
    • [do_widget id="gdrts_stars_rating_list-9"]
    • [do_widget id="gdrts_stars_rating_list-7"]
    • [do_widget id="gdrts_stars_rating_list-6"]
    • [do_widget id="gdrts_stars_rating_list-5"]
    • [do_widget id="gdrts_stars_rating_list-4"]
    • [do_widget id="gdrts_stars_rating_list-8"]
    • [do_widget id="gdrts_stars_rating_list-10"]