Scary Paranormal Stories & Short Horror Microfiction

Creepypasta

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During my childhood my family was like a drop of water in a vast river, never remaining in one location for long. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight, and there we remained until I went to college in Colorado Springs. Most of my memories are rooted in Rhode Island, but there are fragments in the attic of my brain which belong to the various homes we had lived in when I was much younger.

Most of these memories are unclear and pointless– chasing after another boy in the back yard of a house in North Carolina, trying to build a raft to float on the creek behind the apartment we rented in Pennsylvania, and so on. But there is one set of memories which remains as clear as glass, as though they were just made yesterday. I often wonder whether these memories are simply lucid dreams produced by the long sickness I experienced that Spring, but in my heart, I know they are real.

We were living in a house just outside the bustling metropolis of New Vineyard, Maine, population 643. It was a large structure, especially for a family of three. There were a number of rooms that I didn’t see in the five months we resided there. In some ways it was a waste of space, but it was the only house on the market at the time, at least within an hour’s commute to my father’s place of work.

The day after my fifth birthday (attended by my parents alone), I came down with a fever. The doctor said I had mononucleosis, which meant no rough play and more fever for at least another three weeks. It was horrible timing to be bed-ridden– we were in the process of packing our things to move to Pennsylvania, and most of my things were already packed away in boxes, leaving my room barren. My mother brought me ginger ale and books several times a day, and these served the function of being my primary from of entertainment for the next few weeks. Boredom always loomed just around the corner, waiting to rear its ugly head and compound my misery.

I don’t exactly recall how I met Mr. Widemouth. I think it was about a week after I was diagnosed with mono. My first memory of the small creature was asking him if he had a name. He told me to call him Mr. Widemouth, because his mouth was large. In fact, everything about him was large in comparison to his body– his head, his eyes, his crooked ears– but his mouth was by far the largest.

“You look kind of like a Furby,” I said as he flipped through one of my books.

Mr. Widemouth stopped and gave me a puzzled look. “Furby? What’s a Furby?” he asked.

I shrugged. “You know… the toy. The little robot with the big ears. You can pet and feed them, almost like a real pet.”

“Oh.” Mr. Widemouth resumed his activity. “You don’t need one of those. They aren’t the same as having a real friend.”

I remember Mr. Widemouth disappearing every time my mother stopped by to check in on me. “I lay under your bed,” he later explained. “I don’t want your parents to see me because I’m afraid they won’t let us play anymore.”

We didn’t do much during those first few days. Mr. Widemouth just looked at my books, fascinated by the stories and pictures they contained. The third or fourth morning after I met him, he greeted me with a large smile on his face. “I have a new game we can play,” he said. “We have to wait until after your mother comes to check on you, because she can’t see us play it. It’s a secret game.”

After my mother delivered more books and soda at the usual time, Mr. Widemouth slipped out from under the bed and tugged my hand. “We have to go the the room at the end of this hallway,” he said. I objected at first, as my parents had forbidden me to leave my bed without their permission, but Mr. Widemouth persisted until I gave in.

The room in question had no furniture or wallpaper. Its only distinguishing feature was a window opposite the doorway. Mr. Widemouth darted across the room and gave the window a firm push, flinging it open. He then beckoned me to look out at the ground below.

We were on the second story of the house, but it was on a hill, and from this angle the drop was farther than two stories due to the incline. “I like to play pretend up here,” Mr. Widemouth explained. “I pretend that there is a big, soft trampoline below this window, and I jump. If you pretend hard enough you bounce back up like a feather. I want you to try.”

I was a five-year-old with a fever, so only a hint of skepticism darted through my thoughts as I looked down and considered the possibility. “It’s a long drop,” I said.

“But that’s all a part of the fun. It wouldn’t be fun if it was only a short drop. If it were that way you may as well just bounce on a real trampoline.”

I toyed with the idea, picturing myself falling through thin air only to bounce back to the window on something unseen by human eyes. But the realist in me prevailed. “Maybe some other time,” I said. “I don’t know if I have enough imagination. I could get hurt.”

Mr. Widemouth’s face contorted into a snarl, but only for a moment. Anger gave way to disappointment. “If you say so,” he said. He spent the rest of the day under my bed, quiet as a mouse.

The following morning Mr. Widemouth arrived holding a small box. “I want to teach you how to juggle,” he said. “Here are some things you can use to practice, before I start giving you lessons.”

I looked in the box. It was full of knives. “My parents will kill me!” I shouted, horrified that Mr. Widemouth had brought knives into my room– objects that my parents would never allow me to touch. “I’ll be spanked and grounded for a year!”

Mr. Widemouth frowned. “It’s fun to juggle with these. I want you to try it.”

I pushed the box away. “I can’t. I’ll get in trouble. Knives aren’t safe to just throw in the air.”

Mr. Widemouth’s frown deepend into a scowl. He took the box of knives and slid under my bed, remaining there the rest of the day. I began to wonder how often he was under me.

I started having trouble sleeping after that. Mr. Widemouth often woke me up at night, saying he put a real trampoline under the window, a big one, one that I couldn’t see in the dark. I always declined and tried to go back to sleep, but Mr. Widemouth persisted. Sometimes he stayed by my side until early in the morning, encouraging me to jump.

He wasn’t so fun to play with anymore.

My mother came to me one morning and told me I had her permission to walk around outside. She thought the fresh air would be good for me, especially after being confined to my room for so long. Exstatic, I put on my sneakers and trotted out to the back porch, yearning for the feeling of sun on my face.

Mr. Widemouth was waiting for me. “I have something I want you to see,” he said. I must have given him a weird look, because he then said, “It’s safe, I promise.”

I followed him to the beginning of a deer trail which ran through the woods behind the house. “This is an important path,” he explained. “I’ve had a lot of friends about your age. When they were ready, I took them down this path, to a special place. You aren’t ready yet, but one day, I hope to take you there.”

I returned to the house, wondering what kind of place lay beyond that trail.

Two weeks after I met Mr. Widemouth, the last load of our things had been packed into a moving truck. I would be in the cab of that truck, sitting next to my father for the long drive to Pennsylvania. I considered telling Mr. Widemouth that I would be leaving, but even at five years old, I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the creature’s intentions were not to my benefit, despite what he said otherwise. For this reason, I decided to keep my departure a secret.

My father and I were in the truck at 4 a.m. He was hoping to make it to Pennyslvania by lunch time tomorrow with the help of an endless supply of coffee and a six-pack of energy drinks. He seemed more like a man who was about to run a marathon rather than one who was about to spend two days sitting still.

“Early enough for you?” he asked.

I nodded and placed my head against the window, hoping for some sleep before the sun came up. I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. “This is the last move, son, I promise. I know it’s hard for you, as sick as you’ve been. Once daddy gets promoted we can settle down and you can make friends.”

I opened my eyes as we backed out of the driveway. I saw Mr. Widemouth’s silouhette in my bedroom window. He stood motionless until the truck was about to turn onto the main road. He gave a pitiful little wave good-bye, steak knife in hand. I didn’t wave back.

Years later, I returned to New Vineyard. The piece of land our house stood upon was empty except for the foundation, as the house burned down a few years after my family left. Out of curiosity, I followed the deer trail that Mr. Widemouth had shown me. Part of me expected him to jump out from behind a tree and scare the living bejeesus out of me, but I felt that Mr. Widemouth was gone, somehow tied to the house that no longer existed.

The trail ended at the New Vineyard Memorial Cemetery.

I noticed that many of the tombstones belonged to children.

//
Credited to perfectcircle35.

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Rating: 9.3/10 (4695 votes cast)
Mr. Widemouth, 9.3 out of 10 based on 4695 ratings
  • Luca Rio

    “Ahahaha. Mr. Widemouth. Yo old kidder you. Leading children to their deaths. What will you think of next?”

    Luca wags her finger disapprovingly at you.

    “It was enjoyable, and had a convincing childlike quality to it.”

    Luca nods in appreciation.

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    Rating: -1 (from 7 votes)
    • Jeff the killer

      Shhhhh, just go to sleep and i will make sure you meet mr widemouth -cleans knife-

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  • The blue stain on the wall

    Originality?
    On creepypasta.net?
    HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
    Wait.
    *Reads story*
    OH MY GOD.

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    Rating: +8 (from 8 votes)
  • ummm

    so am i the only one that immediately pictured mr. widemouth as the “little demon” from soul eater?

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    Rating: +3 (from 3 votes)
    • Soul

      Nahhh

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      • Anonymous

        i imagined him as a hamster

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    • Dweller of the Sea of Tears

      My impression was a pissed off Furby xD

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  • movie man

    :D

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  • Squeeee

    I enjoyed it, although there was something about the ending that seemed rushed. It was a great buildup, but it seemed like the return to New Vinyard deserved more than one paragraph.

    Some originality was present despite the story seeming cliché at points.

    Overall though, it was a good pasta. I approve. 8/10

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  • Ther

    Good pasta.

    8/10

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  • Matt

    8/10. Loved this story. Kept me hooked. Very well-written and creepy. The character of Mr. Widemouth is somebody you almost feel for. A child in need of a friend after so many moves gets the chance to just leave his pain behind and the ending is a sad, dark, creepy, and moving all at once. This is one of the best stories on this site in an AWFULLY long time. After pages of stupid viruses, haunted TV shows (Dead Bart, Suicide Mouse), and pretentious writing-about-the-monsters-I-see-in-my-journal crapfests, we FINALLY get a good one.

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  • Ladiesman217

    The ending scared me, I suspected he was going to kill the boy with the steak knife that morning if he didn’t leave when he did.

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    Rating: +3 (from 5 votes)
  • Kyogre790

    Very nice, semi-creepy. Although I think I ruined it when I pictrued a Sableye… >.>

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    Rating: +5 (from 5 votes)
  • http://channelislandsghosttrackers.com Deathbecomesme

    Good pasta….gave me the willies….

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  • TKL

    I am gjad this made it on the site. this pasta was delicious. would definitely eat again. gave me a few good shivers when i read it on the forums. please write another That’s as good.

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  • The Listener

    Fantastic, just fantastic.

    I was at first skeptical with the introduction of Mr. Widemouth, but the ending line truly brought the story home.

    Well done, keep up the good work.
    9/10

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    Rating: +2 (from 4 votes)
  • INSOMNIAC

    very well written.

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    Rating: +2 (from 4 votes)
  • Mr. Widemouth

    What???
    I thought it was a funny joke to play on those kids XD

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    Rating: +4 (from 6 votes)
  • Anonymous

    Wait, I don’t understand. Mononucleosis is transmitted through saliva, how did you get it? Were you kissing someone on the lips on your 5th birthday? If anything, its your parents’ fault for not keeping a good eye on you.

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    • Kenzie

      Mono is *mainly* transmitted through saliva, but can be transmitted other ways.

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  • Simon

    Dear fucking anonymous, it’s a goddamn story written by someone. That’s what a creepy pasta is. Chill the fuck down and read the story.

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    Rating: +3 (from 5 votes)
    • Steven

      Just do what I do. When someone freaks out, put ‘em in the freezer like a jar of ants. They’ll apologize.

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  • mrcovet

    I disagree with some posters saying there wasn’t a clear sense of danger or anything, or that it came out almost like comedy – I really felt the transition from comfort to unease. I thought this was excellent!

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    Rating: +6 (from 8 votes)
  • B

    Awesome pasta!

    More please

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  • Octo

    I liked it

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  • sticky16

    OMG this story is major awesome! I hadn’t read a good creepy story for weeks! Thumbs up! Excellent story.

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  • Arancaytar

    <blockquote>i’m sitting in a quiet halfway home for elderly schizophrenic people (where i work the night shift).</blockquote>

    What on Earth do you need to read creepy stories for?

    … Oh, and I’m looking for the Holder of the End. Know anything about that? :P

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  • Anonymous

    Good end.

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  • Rachel

    Oh snap. I always knew that my Furby was up to no good.

    Loved that ending. Very nicely done. I\’m glad it wasn\’t something over the top – that one sentence was a pretty classy way of concluding things.

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    Rating: +4 (from 6 votes)
  • Julie Anne

    Best freaking pasta in a while. The ending sent a chill down my spine, even though I was expecting something a little more sinister. I love stories like this, because I think everyone has something unexplainable from their childhood that\’s a little eerie… 9/10

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  • Rabbit

    Nicely done. 9/10. Not only was it well written and managed to creep me out, but it also seemed familiar in an eerie sort of way I can’t shake off.

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    • LsR

      the premise of this story is true. when i was 2-3 i had nightly visits from a smalleddish brown, high-pitched grating voice, oven-mitt liketng body with a wide mouth, scratchy fur, and glowing eyes. he would appear literally the second my mother and father shut my bedroom door. he came from the small space between the bed and the wall. called itself ‘dirty laundry’. it would tell me stories and sometimes take me on adventures in a strange world. i could never remember these otherworldly and disturbing occurances the next day. until one morning after a usual night visit i did remember. when i finally realized its evil nature (tried to make me think it was my friend. also revealed details of my ‘future’ which have so far been true) i confronted it. the demonic little fucker grew in size till it towered over me. i was certain that i was going to die. but then i called out to God and i rushed at the monster and began to pummel it with my toddler fists. i dont know how exactly, but i somehow defeated it and it has never come back. and i remember. i think it happens to all of us. and if you dont remember, then…it isnt dead yet and you are still in danger

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