Scary Paranormal Stories & Short Horror Microfiction

Creepypasta

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Rating: 9.0/10 (654 votes cast)

I woke up.  Sheets were stained with sweat, breath was no longer bated, and unconscious solace began to surcease.

Depression kills.  Not in a directly physical way, not in a way perceivable by anyone except the sufferer.  It made me feel psychotic.  It went past the brain tissue, into the atoms of their molecules.  I always imagined the electrons painstakingly orbiting a chunk of ice.  There was never light in my imagination.

I felt a subconscious sigh emit, and tossed off the sheets.  I sat up, let drop head to hands, and contemplated once again my current situation.  I contemplated the fact that I could no longer stay awake during the day.  I contemplated the nothing I felt all the time about nothing.

I’ve been contemplating suicide.

Yet I’m too pathetically apathetic.

I got up, and silently made my way to the kitchen.  My night vision and preference for darkness have both increased proportionally.  Light couldn’t help me navigate the cramped quarters of my apartment any better than the dark.

Came to the counter.  Loosened the lid.  Popped the pill.  Instant release.  Or was it a placebo?  Irrelevant.

I sat down on the couch in the living room.  It was 9:04 P.M.  Same time I woke up yesterday.  I left the lights off.  I always felt the darkness bore itself into my head, like an interloper, like a conqueror.  It felt unnatural.  I can’t remember when it swallowed the last fuck I had to give.

And so this is how I’ve lived my days.  I know it wasn’t always this way, but the apathy dulls my memory.  One day, it just seemed like my ribcage wasn’t protecting anything worthwhile.  Like there weren’t any organs inside me.

I go out at night for groceries, for my alcohol, and for the hope that I might feel something.  Anything. I find myself more and more entranced by nothing, though.

I administer databases remotely for a data bank located downtown.  I live in White City.  I see a psychiatrist once a month to keep my prescription of Prozac abundant.  He doesn’t do shit.  I pay him so I can pay for a drug that keeps the worst away.  There’s depression, but there’s a place past that, a place I don’t ever want to be again.  It was like being conscious that you’re insane, that you’re sane while you’re insane.

There’s no way to describe it, except that it haunted me, terrorized me like I’ve never experienced.  I’d kill myself before I got to that point again.

I’ve been here for more than a couple years now.  I dissevered myself from the ones I used to love, because I no longer love.  I cannot connect with anyone.  Empathy evades me.  I’m alone, and I can’t care less.

I feel cold.  No happiness, no fear, no anger, no frustration.  Ice, and apathy.

The weeks go by.  I find myself in the living room, slouched upon the couch.  It was 8:05 in the morning, and I felt a spectral sort of fatigue.  Contradictory, tired and not tired.  The yield from an inversion of homeostasis.  I sighed, preparing to let fall a deep, dreamless sleep.  I depressed the power button on the remote, gaze transfixed on the TV screen reflecting the morning sun, watching my reflection being disemboweled by a jerky, gaunt figure, half the innards thrown, looking like they might come out the TV from the other side, the other half wrapped around his neck so he could devour them while keeping his scarred arms free to keep emptying me out.  I stared at myself, and my self rolled it’s lifeless eyes toward me, until the creature slowly moved it’s mouth down near the bridge of my nose, cocked his head instantly, used his tongue to spear my eyes, one by one down his throat.  It began to turn it’s head towards the TV, but before I could behold this nightmarewalker’s face, the reflection changed.  There was no reflection.

I sat there.  I wasn’t able to move.  Paralysis.  Seconds passed.  I screamed.

As loud as I could, I used the lungs I knew were still in me. Flying upwards, sprinting to a corner of the room, knocking a bookcase down so I could flatten myself against the wall.

Eyes from corner to corner of the apartment I used to know.  Heart beating loud enough to be used as sonar.  I heard sweat hit the books.  And, finally, I felt.  I felt sickened.  I felt disgust.  I felt confusion.

I can finally feel fear.

I spent hours calming down.  There was no sleep now.  It seemed that the peaceful place my consciousness went to during sleep was now convoluted by a web of my internal organs.  I turned every single light on in my house.  Washed a hundred milligrams of anti-depression down with something both Russian and 120 proof.  Felt the fear and ethanol interact and puked it up.  Turned the TV towards the wall.

I must’ve muttered “What the fuck?” a hundred times.  What the fuck?  What happened?  I’m not sure I’ve ever hallucinated anything past the familiar hypnagogic images preluding sleep.  What was it that murdered my reflection?  Logic couldn’t find it’s place.  There were no variables able to induce something like that.

I wasn’t sure what to do.  The only option I had was to talk to my psychiatrist in a couple weeks.

Two weeks passed.  The TV stayed turned, the lights stayed on, even when I slept.  I can’t sleep like I used to.  I dream now.  The DMT released when I dreamt was flooding every synapse in my brain.  I saw different things.  One dream, he licked clean my ribcage.  Another, I used a spoon to cut his fingers off, sticking them through his neck while he just stood there.  In one, we sat next to each other on a loveseat, and simply stared at ourselves in a mirror that covered an entire wall.  I had no expression on my face.  He had no face, and instead scars in the form of an X over each eye, and a gangrenous, greening chelsea grin connected to each side of his hairless, deformed head.

The teeth were covered in a browning-red, with jagged holes carved out of a few and atrophying flesh in between most.  His mutilated lips were sewn as far away from his mouth as possible, leaving his dry and puffy, bloody and purple, rotten and decayed gums exposed.  His skin is mostly bleached a bright white, with massive keloids in some areas and burned flesh in others.  He wears no shirt, revealing messy stitchwork covering his entire torso.  He looked like the result of a drunk mortician and years of starvation.  He was tall, and thin, arms with reach, deep scars up the underside of the wrist, and perhaps just sinew in the stead of muscle.  He was emaciated, no sign of ribs, feet covered in caked blood and legs with sharp pockmarks in various places.  He was genital-less, but not naked, as the skin he was in seemed more like a suit than a part of his body.

I spent the first week distracted by paranoia.  It eased when nothing happened.  I made sure every light I owned was on.  I made sure I had alcohol in me at all times.

My psychiatric appointment arrived.  I told the doctor I’d experienced hallucinations, and I felt intense fear.  Dismissively, he told me it seemed like a result of the depression.  I asked him about any side effects of the medication.  Tonelessly, he said there were none relevant to my experience.  I asked him which course of action I should take.  Carelessly, he told me to remind myself that it’s all in my head.  That it’s all a matter of electrical flow in my brain, and neurotransmitters in the axioms.  He recommended that I videotape myself when I felt like I had control of reality to prove to my future self that everything was fine.  He wrote me off another prescription of Prozac, and scheduled an appointment for another month.  I asked him if he would put me in two weeks earlier.

He said he was too busy.

Fucking prick.

I got home.  Turned the computer on.  Found out what the Internet had to say about Prozac.

Severe symptoms included hallucinations.  That goddamned psychiatrist. I flushed the pills down the drain and didn’t even bother with the pharmacy.  I turned on the webcam.

Uneasily, I began talking to my future self, “Hey. You’re ok right now.  There’s no one here.  There’s no more Prozac to fuck with your head.”  I took a swig of some incendiary to warm me up.

“It seems like it was just a side effect of the anti-depressant. You have control of reality. There are no hallucinations anymore.  You’re good now.”  I ended the recording and sent a shortcut to the desktop.

I had a nightmare again that night.  He removed me bit by bit with a scalpel that had been pushed into his index finger, and an ocean of blood rapidly pooling out of it.  He had ripped the stitching on his torso off, drenching his body in a brown-tinged maroon, and was stuffing my organs inside of him.  I was still alive.  I felt the pain.  I wasn’t sure how much of the blood from his finger was inside me before I woke up.  Nor was I sure of how much of me he extracted.

When I woke up, the bedroom door was closed.  I passed the day away typically.  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be feeling from being off that drug, but it was too early to discern a difference.  I felt a twinge of frost, an arrowhead in the tip of my brain.  Subliminal.

I made another video.  I told myself a few different things, and it lasted a couple minutes.  Again this file went to the desktop.  I got up, stepping towards the kitchen, feeling a sort of slime touch the bottom of my foot.  It didn’t distract me, though.

The alcohol did.

I went to sleep.  The next day, again, the bedroom door was closed.  I know I hadn’t closed it.  I moved the computer desk in front of my room after I finished my night, and set the webcam to record what exactly happened.  I went to bed at 7:06 A.M.  When I woke, the door was closed again.  I rearranged the desk, and slowly moved the slider, analyzing the video.

He’s been watching me sleep.

A bleached hand with a scalpel for an index finger grabbed the edge of the door and closed it.  He knew I was watching him.

I drank.

I wasn’t sure what effect the medication had on me.  Maybe it was too soon for the side effects to wear off.  I had been taking the medication for a few years now, though, so why is it happening now?  Either I’ve gone insane, or something is happening.  Something more real than a hallucination the mind can synthesize.

I’m not insane.

I’m not insane.

I’m not insane.

I’m not insane.

I can’t be sane.

I go back over the video.  Again and again.  He closes the door everytime.  At 2:11 in the afternoon.

After however much time is spent, I go back to the couple videos I made, searching for solace.  I watch them.  And he’s in them.  He’s standing behind me, right fucking behind me, in both of them.  He scratches my name into his pale chest and lets his brown-red blood drip off.  I look behind me and I see the stains in the carpet.  I look at the bottom of my foot, and there’s a branch of sickly purple vessels spreading throughout.

I watched the first video.  Telling myself there’s no one there causes his unsurgically cut smile to grow.

I made the mistake of going into the bathroom.  I looked down to turn the faucet off, and then up, and he’s right behind me, scalpel plunged into my ear drum, twisting and turning.  I turn around.  Only a miasmic smell of putrescence.

I smashed the mirror.

So I left the apartment.  I go to the liquor store, and as I purchase my bottle, he’s standing behind the cashier with his barbed tongue wrapped around the cashier’s throat, drawing blood.  It waterfalls down his shirt.  When the cashier talks, he sounds like he’s suffocating.  He sounds anguished.  Yet he doesn’t act like he notices it.  I sure as hell do.

I go to the grocery store.  I pass by the butchery, and he’s in there with a blade, cutting up some sort of carcass, flies looking to get their fill.  His face stares at me, the scarred Xs igniting the photoreceptor cells inside my eyes.  He doesn’t notice the blade cutting through his fingers first, then hand, then wrist.

I leave.

I rent a hotel for the night.  I open the door and he’s standing in the middle of the room, the middle of the blood-fucking-drenched room that stinks like a slaughterhouse.  I close the door.

I’m back at my apartment now.  I have no more peace.  These few weeks, I haven’t been alone like I have been these past few years.  There is nothing better than being alone.  But he won’t leave, he follows me.

I sit in the corner of my living room, every light I have inundating my immediate surroundings.  I’ve got 112 ounces left and a capsule of caffeine pills.

I haven’t seen him since the hotel.  That was hours ago.  Where is he?  Is he waiting in the bedroom?  Is he hiding in the reflection of the broken mirror?  Is he standing outside my door?  He’s stolen my mind.  He’s invaded it.  The way I used to bask in the darkness and let it envelop my imagination, I find that I now bask within his existence.  He interlopes within my imagination.  I can hear how loudly his scarred smile laughs.  I can smell the stink of rot on his breath.  I can feel him running his pale fingers over me.  I can sense him in every way possible, but I can’t see him, he leaves that up to my imagination.  He’s here, but I don’t know where.  He has stolen my sanity, and I don’t know where to find it.  It’s 12:01 A.M.

There is a stench in my apartment.  Like blood fermented for consumption, like flesh rotted to an extra rare.  There is a footstep in my bedroom, one in the kitchen, another right in front me.  The radius of the light is my domain, the only place safe.  He weaves through parts of the darkness.  I think I can see him, and yet all I see is darkness, warped and twisting in on itself.  It flows ethereally, consuming everything in it.  I don’t feel fear anymore.  I feel empty.  I feel the end.

I take a very long drink.

I turn the lights off.

Credit To: Lichtjunger

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Rate This Pasta
Rating: 9.0/10 (654 votes cast)
Mentality, 9.0 out of 10 based on 654 ratings
  • Somn

    This is just fucking great. Oh my god it’s great. I can honestly say that it’s my favorite pasta ever. It’s well written, it’s a great story, and it hits home and those touchy spots in a lot of places. I think I love you, and we should sex. Regularly. 10/10, srsly best I’ve ever read.

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    Rating: +61 (from 83 votes)
  • AssHat

    I cannot believe this got a 9.9.

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    Rating: -30 (from 72 votes)
    • epicface3001

      Actually, now it’s gone down to 9.3 so now its the last one one top rated pastas

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      Rating: +3 (from 7 votes)
    • UnderAngel

      I can’t believe you call yourself AssHat.

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      Rating: +30 (from 36 votes)
      • WIMSBYJ

        I can’t believe it’s not butter! O_O

        But in all seriousness, this is a pretty interesting story; minus the fact that it seemed more like you were lurking around in the mind of a psychotic indvidual… but then again, very appealing to my wicked and blood-stained soul.

        -10/10 for well… everything

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        Rating: -7 (from 13 votes)
  • MrVakarian

    Wow, this was my first pasta… What a tale. I was hooked and terrified all at once. Well done :D

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    Rating: +15 (from 23 votes)
  • Z.S. Davies

    This prose goes beyond purple. It’s ultraviolet. It’s nice to have a good vocabulary, but your first goal should be to tell a clear and compelling story, not to bog the reader down with wordy and awkward sentence structure.

    I know that long + big words = an instant 10 rating from some people here, but if you really want to be a good writer, you’ll have to cure yourself of the Frasier Crane style.

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    Rating: +17 (from 75 votes)
    • J

      I agree with you, but only for the first couple of paragraphs. After that, the writing becomes intensely descriptive, and actually rather beautiful. But maybe I just adjusted to it and was happy there were no spelling or grammatical errors.

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      Rating: +24 (from 26 votes)
      • Heft

        The same thought kept occurring to me as I was reading. Even knowing the definitions of the words, I find it distracting and it detracts from an otherwise strong story. I’m not suggesting you resort to writing on a second grade reading level, but ask yourself if you could be better served with more effective word choice.

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        Rating: +7 (from 19 votes)
      • Sweet Sister Morphine

        I just assumed it was a deliberate affectation.

        In any case, it kind of works for this particular story, given that the narrator is supposed to be kind of unhinged.

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        Rating: +3 (from 9 votes)
      • http://creepypasta anonanon

        I totally agree with you, this was actually fucking awesome. I’ve read it before but i had to read it again. I’m actually quite scared because i use to take Prozac. But this was seriously awesome man.

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        Rating: 0 (from 0 votes)
    • Cabin

      Wow, I didn’t think the words were that hard to understand…
      Probably should of stayed in school kid.

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      Rating: -1 (from 17 votes)
      • IronyMan

        “Probably should of stayed in school kid.”

        Should have, you surely mean? Back to school…

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        Rating: +16 (from 18 votes)
  • victor

    The person was think about simething and when the person wake up he heard voises and he got scared and he look around the house but he did saw nothing and then he look back and he saw someone outside the house and there where some guy with black clothes and it was a drewm and he waked up and he saw that the window and there where nothing outside so he when back to sleep.

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    Rating: -36 (from 40 votes)
    • YourTeacher

      Well that was one long ass sentence to read. I give you an F-. Have a good day.

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      Rating: +6 (from 6 votes)
  • Cavoto

    An amazing view into the disturbed and horrified mind of depression and insanity. As someone with depression, I can honestly say I am terrified when I imagine the vividly detailed monster yet completely in touch with the narrator. You have created a masterpiece using your own style of very personal writing. Ignore what may be said about needing to write certain ways, using this style brings a reader so much closer to the character. Keep writing. Please.

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    Rating: +24 (from 34 votes)
  • shut up guys

    this psta rocked. i cant beileve it doesnt have a 10!

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    Rating: +4 (from 18 votes)
  • jben33

    i dont get the ending. he turns off the light and its supposed to lead the reader to believe something will happen? or he is genuinely insane?

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    Rating: 0 (from 10 votes)
    • Person

      When he turns off the light he’s basically surenduring and killing himself

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      Rating: +4 (from 12 votes)
    • Lichtjunger

      That’s for you to decide.

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      Rating: +13 (from 17 votes)
    • BlueFox

      The being that’s following him lives in the darkness. The narrator is tired of attempting to outrun it and believes he’ll never escape from it no matter how hard he tries. By switching off the light he’s giving up and allowing it to take him.

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      Rating: 0 (from 0 votes)
  • jben33

    was he phone??

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    Rating: +31 (from 45 votes)
  • MarianneWotsit

    I hate that guy. He came over last week and I was like dude f*ck off I just had new carpets.

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    Rating: +55 (from 59 votes)
  • Mike Volcheck

    O my god. That sent chills down my spine. Great pasta. 10/10 Would eat again.

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    Rating: +5 (from 7 votes)
  • Awesome

    Full of depth, extremely dark and chilling, wonderful creature description – this is just an amazing pasta. Not exactly scary or nightmare enducing, but more a cold masterpeice.

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    Rating: +9 (from 9 votes)
  • http://facebook.com the cake

    i dont know how i feel about this pasta. im conflicted. needless to say itwas an excellent story, but by the way it started out i expected something totally different and personally intriguing. ah well. one day. it will find me. at 3am. and the light bulb will go out as i hear a distant crashing within my home.

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    Rating: +7 (from 7 votes)
  • Themaninblack

    Was there a code or secret with the numbers? I saw 211, 2:11, 12:01 etc

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    Rating: +7 (from 11 votes)
  • Anonymous

    Wow, this sucked.

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    Rating: -31 (from 49 votes)
  • Anonymous

    Im sitting at work right now, knowing that i’ve got things to do but i cant stop thinking about this story. I love it, it is so great. You describe him so well, i can imagine him like i saw him – sensed him – myself. Dont know what pasta this will do to me tonight, when i switch the lights off. Thank you.

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    Rating: +12 (from 12 votes)
  • ARE YOU PHONE?

    This was absolutely amazing. And the "I’m not insane, I’m not insane…" That reminded me of A7x, yeah. BUT I LOVED THIS OK, probably one of my favorite pastas.

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    Rating: +5 (from 13 votes)
  • Endoplasmic Reticulum

    Yea, I hate when that happens.

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    Rating: +7 (from 7 votes)
  • rancidtomato

    It gets kind of annoying. You know when you have to constantly read like this. Full stops aren’t adding any kind of effect. When you’re just using them in a regular sentence. It works in intense scenes.

    Other than that it was pretty well written, I didn’t find it scary and I think it’s the only story in the Top 15 that I don’t think deserves to be there. 6/10

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    Rating: -9 (from 29 votes)
    • WhatDoesTheFoxSay

      Actually, he’s supposed to be depressed and insane, so it seems probable that he would think/speak like that… Just saying :)

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      Rating: +2 (from 2 votes)
  • thatgirl

    This was beautiful. For the sake of my sanity, please keep writing.

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    Rating: +11 (from 11 votes)
  • SlenderMan

    Very good story. I read it to my 11 year old brother and he cried. Keep on writing! :D

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    Rating: +9 (from 13 votes)
  • Palaiologos

    First of all, I’d like to compliment you on a well-executed and for the most part well written story. It was compelling and well worth the read.

    But I’d like to say something about your style. When I started reading the first sentence, I really felt like closing this tab and moving on. I kept reading, however, and I quickly noticed that you have a large vocabulary and don’t mind sharing this with the rest of us. This can be distracting at times, as it takes the momentum out of the story, and writing a story about a person slowly slipping into apathy and insanity isn’t really improved by using dynamic and colourful language.

    Also, I noted that you bounced back and forth between different styles of writing at times. The usual, colourful use of language, and at times minimalistic telegram-style, which I found more suited for the story. But you should really pick a style and stick with it, again to preserve the momentum of the story and to help immerse the reader.
    Later on in the story you settled somewhere in the middle, which made it much, much better to read.

    I urge you to keep writing, as you are skilled, but I advise you not to put too much emphasis on style, and make it more compatible with the subtance of your writing.

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    Rating: +14 (from 20 votes)
  • A

    This was definitely one of the best pastas I’ve ever read. Now this story holds a special place in my heart alongside with Psychosis and Tulpa.

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    Rating: +4 (from 10 votes)
  • J

    Don’t listen to some of these folks. Your style of writing is damn near flawless, and I loved it. 10/10

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    Rating: +6 (from 12 votes)
  • Charlie

    This story is especially chilling to me. I have suffered from depression for many long years. I, too, drowned myself in Prozac before I started flushing it out of fear. I’ve had my fair share of horrid hallucinations and nightmares. I’ve been there, that sane-whilst-insane place.
    This is the best description I’ve seen of it thus far. Kudos to you, sir, for capturing the feeling.

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    Rating: +6 (from 10 votes)

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