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August 12, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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I knock on the door for the third time, the noise of my fist banging hollowly off the door and into the house beyond me.

I wait. No answer.

It’s weird. My father told me that he and my family would be here for when I got home. We haven’t seen each other for over a year, as I was at school halfway across the country. There is no note on the door explaining their absence, they haven’t sent an e-mail. Maybe they were planning to jump out and scare me … But I don’t think they would do that. They know how I feel about that kind of stuff.

I knock one more time, losing my patience with every passing second.

“Hello?” I shout. There’s still no answer. Maybe they all fell asleep and they’re sleeping through my constant, obnoxious knocking … that seems a little unlikely.

I decide to look for a spare key. My mother always keeps one, but constantly changes its position. She is terrified of the idea of somebody getting into our house, and always leaves the door locked.

After looking under the door mat, under the porch and in the head of a garden gnome on the front lawn, I peer into a potted plant that hangs just before the door. Inside is … dirt; and plants. Great, I think, now I’m stuck here!

I pace the porch several times, pondering how I could get in. I could go and see if a neighbour has a spare key … but I don’t want to bug anybody this late at night unless it’s an absolute emergency. And I don’t think my mother would give anybody outside of the family a spare key, just in case.

I suddenly go for the door to try and open it. I didn’t want to have to break in, and frustration forces me to try to open the door, even if I know that it won’t open.

But it does.

I stand there surprised for several seconds. That’s very unusual. Normally my mother keeps the doors locked, no matter if somebody is home or not. I step cautiously inside. The house is completely dark. I flip on the light switches that lay beside the door. The lights flicker to life, though that doesn’t help the unease that is mounting over me, creeping up my insides.

“Hello?” I shout again. “Is anyone home?”

There is no answer. The night now seems completely silent. I can here myself breathing.

I turn and close the door slowly, and the clicking noise of the door meeting its frame makes me jump. That’s when I realize: the chain lock on the door … it’s broken. It’s broken … Not as if somebody had cut it. It was broken as if somebody had opened the door with such force that it was pulled into pieces. As I step backwards, I step on something small on the ground, causing a tinkling sound. I look down at my feet. Pieces of the chain lock are strewn across the floor. The fear is growing on me. Was there a break-in?

“Hello?” I shout again, my voice sounding more fearful than I intend. They should be home. I saw the car in the garage.

I walk down the hallway that is immediately adjacent to the front door. To my right is the staircase that leads upstairs, and to my left is the den.

Past the hallway is the kitchen. I flick on the lights. Nobody’s there, but the remains of what looks like tonight’s dinner is on the counter, uncleaned.

I turn around and hear a small thump upstairs. Sounds like someone’s up there

(somebody …)

waiting for me to come upstairs, or getting ready to come down. So I walk slowly back down the hallway, my footsteps sounding unbearably loud in the distracting silence.

As I reach the end of the hallway, I hear the thump again. It’s still very faint. I’m not sure what it is.

I take a left and begin to ascend the stairway. The wooden stairs beneath my feet creak angrily with age.

Upstairs is darkness. Complete darkness. I enter a curve in the stairs and emerge into the top floor. I begin to search for the light switch and can’t find it. I find it very weird how I’ve memorized the entire upstairs floor – I could walk around up there with my eyes closed – but I can’t find the light switch.


There it is again. That sound. It seems to be coming from my parent’s bedroom, straight ahead, down the hallway.

I shuffle my way down the dark hallway, feeling along the walls for the light switch.


Somebody is in my parent’s room.


(Somebody is in there …)

It sounds like somebody bumping into something … like a desk or the floor.

As I shuffle further down the pitch-black hallway, the sound increases. It becomes louder. It breaks the deadly silence of the house, and my stomach sinks in nervousness.

I approach the door. I don’t want to open it. I’m not sure what’s inside there, and something tells me I don’t want to know. But something else forces me to step forward towards the door that leads to my parent’s room and beyond, to whatever is inside.

I reach my hand out slowly towards the doorknob –

Thump …

I feel like I can hear my bones creaking –

Thump …

I grasp the doorknob –

Thump …

Something’s in the room –

Thump …

I twist the door knob –

Thump …

The door creaks loudly as I open it slowly …

I peer in, and see something. I can’t quite make it out. But my eyes adjust to the darkness straight away. I stifle a cry and a scream. I see it. My family – hanging from the beams on the ceiling from their necks. The thumping –

Thump …

It was their bodies swinging and slamming into the wall behind them.

Their bodies are soaked with blood, and their eyes are wide open with fear. My parents, my brother and my sister – they are all dead. I can’t process this. It can’t be.

I start hyperventilating, and a weird, repeating noise is expelled from my mouth. Is it crying, whimpering, or a stifled scream? I can’t tell. All I know is that somebody was in this house and killed my family.


(Is …)

I run back down the hall, leaving my family’s bodies there. I start to panic, and I reach the stairs and run down, almost tripping and falling. I sprint down the first floor hall and into the kitchen. There’s the phone: on the kitchen counter. I run to it and pick it up, dialing 911 as I do so. I wait. There’s no ring. Why isn’t it ringing?

I try again – still no ring. The more I try, the more fear builds upside of me. It won’t work.

Then I see something that makes me freeze completely. The phone cord – it’s been cut! I can’t make any calls on this phone.

And then I notice it, and I go stone cold: the lights are all off again.

I walk towards the light switch for the kitchen and flip them on. There’s no light. I flip them on and off again. The light doesn’t come on. I stare around. Everything has been switched off. The digital clocks, the lights, anything that runs on our electricity.

The power has been turned off.

It can’t be a coincidence. I find my family dead and the power turns off. Whatever was


here has turned off the power. I’m terrified now. I can barely comprehend what’s happening. I turn my head from side to side helplessly, as if looking for someone to help me. And then I run to the door. I need to get to a neighbour’s house. Hopefully one of them will help me. Hopefully someone in the neighbour hood is awake.

I run to the door and turn the door knob. I pull; it’s locked.

How could this be? I didn’t lock the door when I came in …

I pull and pull and can’t get the door to even creek. I finally resort to slamming against the door with my shoulder after pulling and yanking and shaking with all of my might. The door shudders as I slam into it, and my shoulder begins to hurt more and more with each time I hit it. I slam into it so many times that it the constant banging noises start to turn into a rhythmic beat inside of my head. But the door still won’t budge.

That’s when I remember the sliding glass door at the back of the kitchen. I sprint back down the hallway and into the kitchen, panicking in the darkness.

I’m at the end of the hall, staring into the kitchen and the dining room. Straight ahead of me is the sliding glass door. I run over to it and yank back the beige curtain. But outside, there’s nothing. Everything has disappeared. There are no lights from other houses. There are no other houses. I should be able to see the back yard from here.

Then I here another sound from upstairs; it accompanies the thump … thump … of my family’s bodies slamming against the wall. But this sound isn’t a thump … It sounds like …


What is that?


I hear it … it’s moving up and down the hall upstairs, as if someone was pacing …

Clip-clop, clip-clop

It sounds like … hooves?

Whatever it is … I don’t think I want it to be here.

I’m not sure if I want to know what it is, but instinct drives me to see what it is, the steady clip-clop covering up my timid, slow footsteps. I reach the stairs. Now I’m climbing them. There’s someone


in the hallway. I can feel coldness from upstairs. I’m terrified right now, but that’s not what I feel in my gut. It’s something more insidious than that. It’s like knowing somebody is going to jump out and scare you, but you don’t know from where. The feeling is slowly overwhelming me to a point where the creek of the stairs over the clip-clop of the hooves above makes me jump.

Upstairs is my dead family, and

Clip-clop, clip-clop



is in that hallway. It’s waiting for me.

Clip-clop, clip-clop

I can feel it.

I’m on the last step of the staircase. I close my eyes as tears of fear well up inside of them.

Clip-clop, clip-clop

The noise … it’s getting closer. It’s coming towards me.

Clip-clop, clip-clop

It’s getting louder; the feeling inside of me is ready to burst.


It’s right there. In front of me. I know it is, even though me eyes are closed tight. I don’t want to open them. But I know I have to. So I do.

And nothing’s there.

I know I should feel relieved, but now, if it’s possible, I feel even more terrified than before.

All the way down the hallway I can see my family’s bodies, swinging from the nooses around their neck.

Thump …

I begin to cry. They’re gone. That’s starting to process in my mind. I can’t believe it. I’m stuck in here, with no way out, all alone

(or am I alone?)

And my family is dead. I can’t use the telephone … but one of my family member’s bodies might still have one.

I don’t want to have to do this … but it’s the only way I’ll have any contact with the outside world.

I run down the hall, tears streaming down my cheeks. Each one of my footsteps scares me. I think I can almost hear the

Clip-clop, clip-clop

I’m in the room now. My family is hanging in front of me. I don’t want to look at them, but I have to. I need to find a phone and call for help.

I put it off for as long as I can by pacing up and down the room, but eventually I realize that I have to. I go up to my father’s hanging body, whimpering as I do so. I check his pockets – there’s no phone.

Next I check my mother’s pockets. I can’t find her phone, and now I’m all-out crying. I check my sibling’s pockets and can’t find their phone. Now I’m terrified, I’m filled with despair.

(my family’s dead, why, why, why -)

I collapse into the corner of my parent’s bedroom, right beside the dresser. I cover my eyes and begin to sob. Tears stream down my face. I try to keep quiet, though, as I even the noise of my familiar crying is scaring me in this silence.

I force myself to look up at my family again.

Thump …

Their shirts are soaked with blood, and are torn open by claw marks

(claw marks?)

I get up shakily and walk timidly over to my brother’s body. I painfully pull a strand of loose fabric from his shirt and it reveals claw marks. Not as if a person had scratched him, but … I couldn’t explain. They just weren’t human. And no human could cut that deeply with their nails. Blood pours profusely from his wounds. And now that his shirt isn’t soaking up the blood, it drips to the floor with a steady and haunting

Drip, drip

I back away, even more fear bubbling inside my stomach. I want to throw up, but I can’t. I’m too scared. I now notice similar claw marks on the rest of my family. I start to back away into the dark hallway again.

Clip-clop, clip-clop

There it is again. But it’s not on the upper floor … it’s coming from downstairs. I think it’s in the kitchen.

Once again, I walk slowly down the stairs, fear overcoming my tears. I have no idea what is happening. All I know is that someone


killed my family and is in the house. But that doesn’t explain the claw marks, the hoof-noises, or how whatever it was seemed to have disappeared when I opened my eyes to look at it.

I’m on the stairs now. They creak underneath my feet. I feel for every stair before stepping. My eyes won’t grow used to the dark.

Clip-clop, clip-clop

I’m at the bottom of the stairs now, after what seems like hours of treading carefully downwards.

Now I stand just before the hallway. I can’t see all the way down. The kitchen is pitch black. I just stand there and take in all of the surrounding sounds.

Drip, drip

Thump …

Clip-clop, clip-clop

It all seems to be coming together, like some twisted orchestra, or a clock that won’t stop ticking, trying to make me lose my mind.


I take a gulp of fear and take slow, timid steps down the hall, like a small child greeting his uncle’s new dog for the first time.

I can see the kitchen more clearly now. And the beige curtain in front of the sliding glass door. As I step closer I see something – at least I think I do – through the curtain.

Something’s behind the curtain. I know it’s whatever was walking around the hallways, because the clip-clop has stopped.

I’m approaching the curtain. I want to find out who has


done this.

Thump …

Drip, drip

I’m choking on my fear now. I’m trying to stifle whimpers. I reach my hand out and I’m ready to yank the curtain away to confront whatever is stalking me.

But then I feel it on my neck: a cold wind. No, it’s not a wind. I can hear it behind me. It’s a raspy, breathing sound. It’s like somebody with strep throat, breathing heavily after a long run.

But it doesn’t feel like breathing. It’s too cold. It feels lifeless. But I know that this person


is behind me.

I close my eyes and take a sharp, shuddering breath. I open them again. I want this thing out of my head.


I swing around abruptly, terrified of what will be standing there. But there’s nothing. But it can’t be nothing. I know that something is in the house. He’s here. I can feel its eyes on me. I can feel it smiling, grinning widely at my fear. It’s watching me.

Now I snap.


I close my eyes, and kneel down with my face on the floor. I hold my head, and I stay like this for some time, until I’m answered by the shattering of glass. I jump at the sound and fall back. I’m staring down at the hallway. It’s still dark, and I can barely see down there.

Thump …

Drip, drip

I suddenly know what’s been broken. It’s the mirror that lies along the wall of the hallway.

I get up, and I feel like I’m shaking uncontrollably. I walk, still timidly, into the hallway. I expect to see a face come out of the darkness, or feel a clawed hand grab my shoulder. But that doesn’t happen. Instead, I stand in the middle of the hallway, alone

(not alone)

and vulnerable. I hear the crunching of glass beneath my feet and look at the mirror on the side of the hallway. It’s cracked, but not smashed. I stare at the cracks in the mirror, terrified about what did it. But with a startling realization, I see that the cracks in the mirror made … letters; Words. What the hell is happening?

I look closer. The words say:


My eyes widen in fear. He


has answered. It wants me. Why? What did I do to deserve this?

And just as I think these words I feel that cold, insidious feeling, coming from my left – the kitchen.

I turn, and I can just see the kitchen, and the sliding glass door with its beige curtain. And there is something behind the curtain again. I know it. I can feel it. But I can also see it. As I stare more closely, I see them: claws. Bloody claws protruding from the small gap in between the two beige curtains, and the bloody claws leave a stain on the curtain, which are slowly being drawn apart, ready to reveal the thing behind it.

I don’t want to confront it anymore. I want it to go away. To leave me alone. To give my family back. But it won’t. It wants me to feel this way.

I run. I run as fast as I can back up the stairs and into the second floor hallway. I’m crying again as I run, and as I run, I fall. Now, I’m here, crouched on the floor, sobbing. My face is to the hard wood floor, and suddenly the rush of adrenaline disappears and the whole house seems silent again. Nothing stirs. And then I hear all of the sounds again, all working together to taunt me, to scare me, and eventually to kill me.

Thump …

Drip, drip

Clip-clop, clip-clop

It’s coming again -

Clip-clop, clip-clop

It’s in the hallway on the first floor -

Clip-clop, clip-clop

It’s coming up the stairs -

Clip-clop, clip-clop

It’s on my floor -

Clip-clop, clip-clop

It’s getting closer -


It’s almost here -


I feel it standing over me. It’s breathing on my neck again, as if it’s crouching just behind me. I think I hear a hoarse, strained giggle, but I’m not sure. I only hear three sounds:

Thump …

Drip, drip

What’s that last noise?

The breathing.

The last sound I ever heard.

Credit To – Graham

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Two Community Promos & Introducing a Beta Reader Contact Page

August 11, 2014 at 6:42 PM

As those of you who visit the site regularly already know, I sometimes like to help promote projects that involve members of our community. Today I have two such promos for you – a book and a film – as well as a request for some input on a new part of the site.

First, let’s talk about the community projects.

The Thing That Stalks The Fields Film

With author David Feuling’s permission, a group of filmmakers is working on taking the popular pasta The Thing That Stalks The Fields from a story to a full-blown movie. I feel this is pretty self-explanatory, so I’ll just let the project-runners themselves do the talking:

The Story
The film follows a young man, John, who inherits a farm from his estranged father. Soon, John begins to learn more about the man who abandoned him, as well as a malevolent presence that seems to haunt him at night. The film explores John’s relationship, or lack there of, with his father as he is psychologically tormented by a creature that seems to have a particular interest in him.

What We Need & What You Get
We are prioritizing the authenticity of the story, so most of our budget is going towards our location and actors. Luckily, Ithaca College PPECS is providing equipment, which allows the rest of our budget to be used towards set essentials such as travel, food, and lodging as well as essential post production work.

As of this writing, they are 47% to their goal of $2,500 – so if this sounds like a film project that you’d like to see come to fruition, please do consider kicking a few bucks their way if possible. You can find their indiegogo fundraiser here, or use the widget below.

Alone in the Woods: Scary Stories, True Tales, and Other Disturbing Things

Brenden Dean, host of the Never Sleep Again Podcast, recently released an eBook compilation of creepy stories. He sent me a complimentary copy (thanks!) and asked me to consider promoting it if I liked it enough. Well, I did – so here I am, passing on the word to the rest of you.

You can read his blog post about the book release here.

Get ready for 242 pages of original horror tales featuring ravenous creatures, perverse psychopaths and malevolent demons, as well as true stories and popular articles from around the web. This is a cocktail of horror formulated to get you thinking about what might lurk in the dark, what truly haunts us, and what could be just around the next corner. Enjoy the sleepless nights to come.

The book is already available for purchase on Amazon here. If you’re interested but want to read a sample of the book first, you can either download a preview directly to your Kindle via the Amazon page, or you can download directly from his site in one of two formats: PDF or ePub. Those links go directly to the files, so you can right-click save-as on the links to start the download.

Available Beta Readers Page


Next, I’d like to talk about a very good suggestion made by Nessa:

Hey Derp,
Might it be possible to create a post on Crappypasta where readers might post their emails in the comment section (of course I would suggest not using a personal email address and rather one specifically for Creepy purposes)if they are willing to be Beta readers for Creepy authors? Authors could use these if they know their pasta is not quite up to par rather than just submitting and hoping for the best, or authors whose works have already ended up on Crappypasta might contact a beta to get in-depth one-on-one help with edits and improvements. Plus, this way when people send you “Can you edit my pasta plzzz?” emails/requests you can tell them no but link them to a post where they can contact people from within the community who would be happy to do so.
Or would this simply be redundant, and are there Creepy forums out there where this service already exists?
Thanks for your time and consideration, both in reading this, and in everything that you do for this site and community!

I think this is an excellent idea, and will go nicely with our already-existing Creepypasta Prompts page and the Crappypasta system. Of course, people who are interested in beta reading can also visit The Creepypasta Network’s forums as many aspiring pasta writers are already posting their in-progress works there, but I think that having a page where people can individually and privately access beta readers would also be valuable. I’m aware that not everybody feels comfortable with posting their unfinished work for at-large public consumption, and this more individual approach would probably be more comfortable for those people.

If you’re interested in having your contact information placed on the beta reader directory, please reply to this post with your information (how the author can contact you, any notes about how much free time you have or what types of stories you are/aren’t interested in reading, etc) and once we get a few available readers, I’ll create the page. After it’s up, it will work like the ‘More Creepypasta’ page where you can just comment on the specific page with the information that you want added/edited.

For now, I’m planning on calling it “Available Beta Readers” unless anyone else has a better idea. If you do, feel free to let me know.


Thanks for your time, everyone!

Once, In Karachi

August 11, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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It was his first time in Karachi. The coastal city seemed to sprawl on forever, and for a little while he was concerned about getting lost there. But, fortunately he had a lot of friends accompanying him. One look at his them as they stood gathered there outside the bus station and he felt neither alone, nor afraid.

“Take one of these whistles with you!” said one of them, handing him a smooth silver whistle and moving on to the next person, handing him a whistle as well.

“What are these for?” he called to him.

“Well, since we’re dividing into small groups to explore, I thought it was a good idea for us to have a quick way to calling out to each other”

He looked back down at the whistle and then to everyone else slowly forming groups of different sizes. He was the only one travelling alone; Since he had a few relatives he wanted to meet, and a few traders he had to discuss terms with. ‘I had best get going’ he thought.

It was all a very boring affair. He wanted to finish his visits as quickly as possible so he could meet up with his friends and maybe go around the city seeing the sights. The British had left only a few years ago and the city had since become a model city for development and growth. It was called ‘the city of light’ and he wanted to see exactly why it was so.

It was already evening by the time he finished all his ‘work’. He was considering where to start looking for his friends when he was approached by a weak, aging woman.

“Could you help me carry these son, son?” she said, gesturing to a sack of rice. It looked heavy even by his standards and he was surprised the woman had actually managed to carry it at all.

“Sure gran. Where is your home, exactly?” he said, lifting the sack onto his back.

“Not far from here” she said, smiling sweetly.

There was something off about her smile but he kept following her anyway, dismissing it as his imagination.

It took him five minutes to toil to get to her house and he was grateful for it not being any farther. She offered him food as he sat on the threshold of her tiny house, trying to catch his breath. He tried to refuse, thinking he should probably be joining his friends soon, but she insisted.

“I really can’t let you go, son. You have helped this old woman. Besides, I have a real treat for you if you can do me just one more favour.” she said earnestly.

“What’s that?” he asked her, wondering if the favour was more donkey work.

“Well, you see… my son died last night”, she said, her face serious and strangely impassive. “…I am but an old woman and I do not have the strength to bathe him for the burial”

He felt shaken by the woman’s request, and a little embarrassed at wanting to get away from there. The helpless old woman was simply preparing for her son’s funeral.

“I’ll be honoured to help”, he said after a moment, resigning himself to do another good deed.

She thanked him profusely led him through a narrow corridor and into what appeared to be a rather austere lounge, seating him on a rug.

“I’ll get you some food first. You will need your strength” she said, bringing him a tray full of pilaf rice. “Let me know when you’re done” she said, and left him to go elsewhere.

He was grateful for the food. His stomach had been aching for a while now and some Pilaf was just the thing he needed. So, he dug in eagerly, searching the rice for some meat. He found a finger.

His body gave a shudder and he immediately spat out the rice he had been chewing. He held up the finger he had found to the light and realized beyond doubt that it really was a human finger. That woman was a cannibal. The horrifying realization hit him like a hammer and he dropped the finger out of shock.

And then, he realized that he had probably been lured there to be eaten.

He looked around him, searching for a way to escape. The woman was waiting outside, he knew, and he did not want to risk running through her. She could be carrying any number of weapons and he needed to be very, very careful about how he dealt with the situation from then on. One wrong move, and he could be the next guy to be made into pilaf rice.

So, the first thing he decided to do was to take all the rice he had scattered over the rug in shock, and sweep it all under the rug along with the finger. He threw some more rice under the rug to make it appear as if he’d eaten his fill and then called out to the woman, and told her that he was ready to bathe her son’s dead body.

She led him out back to a courtyard, where a dead body was indeed placed, covered by a large white sheet on a wooden bed. He wondered if that was really her son. Did she intend to eat her own son as well? Perhaps, the body was simply another one of her victims, and he was actually helping her clean him up for her next meal. The thought was chilling.

He was treading in dangerous territory he knew, so his senses became extremely alert to every single move the woman made. She was carrying an oil lantern and went over to stand by the body’s head holding up the lantern for light. He brought some water in a large steel bucket, and began to bathe the body, keeping an eye on the woman as best as he could.

The first thing he noticed was that the body was not very cold to the touch. Fresh kill, perhaps, he thought. Though a cold shiver ran through his spine, he concentrated on not letting any emotion show on his face. He required every single bit of concentration he could muster to stay in control of the situation, pouring water over the body slowly, and trying to adjust his eyes to the dark.

He quickly became aware of an advantage he had. With the woman standing at the head of the body, she cast a very sharp shadow across the walls and he could see if she moved slightly even with his back turned to her. He thought about it a bit and decided that if the woman really wanted to kill him then he might as well try to lure her into an attack.

So, he deliberately started working on the body with his back turned to her, keeping both eyes on her shadow as he worked. At any moment, he would see hand move, and would immediately counter-attack.

He saw what happened next quite clearly as shadows started to shift. The woman’s left arm slowly drew out something from within the folds of her clothes and raised it high to attack. At the same time something else happened just as slowly though. Something he had not been expecting. It felt like terror creeping up his limbs as he saw the body’s right arm move as well, drawing out something long and blunt from under the shroud.

He jumped away from them reflexively. Fortunately for him the old woman chose to strike at the same moment; her iron rod missed him by mere inches as she brought it down. Her son, who had sat up to reach him, was not so lucky. Her full-blooded swing hit him to the side of his skull and he was knocked out immediately from the hit.

He could not let her recover, either. He jumped right at her and delivered a kick straight into her chest. She was lifted clean off her feet and flew back into the wall. That was it. He did not check to see if either of them was still conscious. He ran out of the house as quickly as he could, covered in cold sweat and short of breath as he was. And as soon he reached the street, he found the whistle his friend had given him and started blowing as hard as he could.

It did not take very long for him to gather a crowd. Some of his friends arrived as well, and he quickly told them what had happened. The police arrived soon after, and began searching the house for the the woman and her son.

The search resulted in a few shocking discoveries as bones of over 50 people were found from the basement of the house. The woman, and her son were arrested. Apparently they had been luring people to the house and eating them for quite a while. Also, according to them, they were not the only ones. Not by a long shot.

Writer’s note: This true story comes from my maternal grandfather, and has been told from his point-of-view. I have tried to keep all the details intact.

Credit To – Salman Shahid Khan

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August 10, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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The “paranormal” world is composed entirely of the nightmarish delusions of terrified and insecure humans around the world, enriched by centuries of cowards and uneducated bumpkins; people who would rather take stock in the undefined hullabaloo of “beings”, the metaphysical, the demons of their own minds, as opposed to the rationality and cold, hard truth of science and contemporary knowledge. None of that actually exists, there is nothing that we cannot explain or understand.

The primal human mind can be a powerful and terrifying entity.

I can say with utmost certainty that I am the most down-to-earth person you could possibly encounter. But after what I have seen and felt with my own eyes and body, I’m writing this more for my own sanity than anything else; perhaps there may be some kind of twisted solace for me in these words. But if there is indeed an underlying purpose for this document, some “moral” that may be conveyed to the rest of the world, it is to confirm that there are truly some things in this world that we humans, the supposed epitome of rational thought, have not yet understood, nor would we ever want to understand.

Reader, let me ask you now; what really terrifies you? When you read a scary story, is it really the words on this screen that scare you, the integration of several choice “spook” sentences into an otherwise rather bland and cliché narrative about a boy alone in the woods with a tall, faceless monster waiting to jump out from behind a tree?

Or is it something more.

Something intensely psychological, beyond the words that make you nervously check over your shoulder, peering through the darkness at the ajar closet door; when your perception of the physical world begins to turn on you. Something malevolent steals control of the synapses and signals firing off in the recesses of your brain, toying with your emotions. You are helpless. Primal hypersensitivity and rapid breathing take over. And sitting in the suddenly abnormally still, silent, cold darkness of your bedroom, you realize that you really are not as safe as you believe yourself to be. This is the insidious, cold realization, percolating down your neck in tendrils of pure frozen nerve sensation, that you may be in very real danger. Sitting alone in the silent darkness of your once-familiar room, the pale artificial light of a computer screen reflecting on your face, and God knows what else.
Maybe that is what this is to you; simply another scary story, isn’t it?

You could not be more mistaken. I could not be more serious.

I am a boy of nineteen, a teenager in all the various connotations of the word; a University engineering student with a penchant for alcohol, intelligent debate, and women.

Several days ago, I was at a house party with a buddy of mine, and as usual, we got to drinking and fraternizing with much mirth. Being the self-proclaimed intellectual I am at heart, however, I eventually found my way into a small group of individuals who were having a debate about ghosts, entities, demons, and the general subject of the paranormal and otherworldly in a rather inconspicuous corner of the room. In retrospect, it is possible that these fellows were even more drunk than I, because there is no other way that such a subject would arise so naturally in normal conversation in such an environment, and be spoken about with such excited and feverish fervor. There is also no other way that we could have so carelessly set off the events that shook me to my core and destroyed the rational world I had clung to for so long.

As I mentioned before, I had been raised to take no stock in anything that I could not see, touch, feel, or otherwise explain through rational thought and observation. As such, my automatic alcohol-fueled reaction to the conversation of this group of paranormal worshippers was to completely put down and argue against their stupidly misguided bullshit stories and beliefs. And, since I wasn’t the only one drunk and preaching my beliefs in that group, I got a lot of retaliation and threats. Nothing truly malicious though.

Until one guy stepped up to my face, alcohol permeating every word, and amidst the din of the party challenged me to step into the unlit restroom, stare myself in the eye of the sink mirror’s reflection, and “summon Satan in my own place.” These are the words he said to me.

Now, you may think that there’s some kind of chant or mantra that you’re supposed to utter to make something like this happen; it brings to mind the classic party gags of “Bloody Mary,” or the “Butcher in the bathtub,” or whatever. But this was not it.

What I was told to do was to look into a mirror and simply concentrate on the intention to summon something from the other side, in my own place. Whatever that meant, I knew not then.

I am sorry to say that I know now.

I of course agreed, with much jeering and cheering, if only to prove a point. I was ushered into the designated bathroom, and the door was quickly shut behind me.

Instantly my world shrank into a claustrophobic and pungent box of muffled amped radio pop, regurgitated svedka, and the sounds of sex-crazed teenagers; my brain shocked my body into an instant of panic as my physical world changed so suddenly. But after that instant, I was calm. My eyes adjusted quickly. I perceived a toilet that would no doubt be filthy if illuminated, but in this combination of blurred atmosphere and alcohol it appeared to me merely as a blob of gurgling yellow porcelain. The wallpaper peeled in a pool of sickly light from a dirt-stained window. The sink was directly opposite me.

I stepped up to it, leaning my weight on my hands as they grasped the wet metal of the sink’s handles, and stared into my own reflected eyes with a sigh. My thoughts wandered as my physical eyes locked with identical metaphysical ones in the mirror. It was too dark to see any real emotion or intent in them, but I stared into those shadow eyes anyway. At this time, I felt no fear at all.

I, of course, do not recall exactly how long this continued for; nobody ever would be able to in a situation like this. It seems to me that, in moments of high adrenaline and rush, sense of time becomes distorted and in retrospect, only the jarring moments of euphoria or horror of an experience are vividly recalled without any reference to any sort of chronological flow of events. Not to mention that I was very drunk and very sleepy; probably shouldn’t have downed that eighth shot of Grey Goose so greedily.

That is why I do not recall exactly when I felt it, or exactly when I saw it; I only recall the sensation of panic and shock I felt when it happened.

…reader, do you know what true fear is? Do you really know it? At that moment, I did.

My reflection, face covered in shadow except for my lips and nostrils, was still my own. But it was not me. It was my nineteen year old frame, but not dressed in the flannel, jeans, and drink-stained frat shoes that I remember seeing in the mirror seemingly moments before.

It was my naked body, completely naked; every inch and section so familiar to me, down to the small pockets of fat and muscle. But its face was something that only the darkest, most twisted mind could possibly comprehend, and even then, not to entirety. It was an image of me that was deeply violating, deeply disturbing, primal and terrifying. Its lips had been curled back into a leer that penetrated my core with a nerve-deadening cold. And its eyes, cold and dead as they were in that lightless place, bore into my own with an illuminated, deathly, supernatural intelligence far beyond my own mortal one. It knew me so well, the depth of its knowledge seemed to transcend anything I was capable of understanding; I felt absolutely powerless.

It was not me. Oh God, but it was me. And it wanted me so badly. It wanted to possess me. To murder me and take my place.

The sight of its pale, familiar form and those God-forsaken eyes scared me, yes.

But what actually instilled pure terror in me was the knowledge that this thing was, indeed, me… a perfectly flawed, primal version of myself.

It is this that stood before me, long before its time, long before it should have had its brief instant in our world, but still in the mirror. And the sensation that rocked my body in undulating waves of panic and despair, standing alone in that dark bathroom; that is what I call true fear.

My brain wanted to throw my body back, away from this thing in the mirror, but I instead involuntarily pitched forward sharply and vomited explosively into the sink; I saw my naked body in the mirror mimic my motion, but instead, it simply dry retched. No alcohol left its lips because it had no physical body to put the stuff into.

It was only then that my knees gave, and my body slumped to the ground; I had one last fleeting view of the thing as it also buckled, falling in a sickly slumped motion to the ground, its dead eyes locked onto mine, before my chin connected with the hard marble of the basin edge and I hit the dirty ground of the bathroom. I lost consciousness instantly, the terror of the moment still sharp. It was such a horrible feeling.

I woke up with my buddy peering down at me, a sea of faces reflecting expressions ranging from amusement to mild concern. The music had been turned off. The group that had issued me the challenge in the first place was regarding me from some distance. I began to sob. It was too much for me.
I believe after that, the paramedics were called and the party disbanded as the house was bathed in the flashing of emergency vehicle lights and the car headlights of concerned neighbors.

It has been a week since that night. I am no longer afraid, but I am still very shaken. I have thought deeply about the experience, and it is from these ruminations that I have come to the conclusions and theories of what I saw in that mirror on that night; but then again, there are many other factors and forces at play here that I doubt I can possibly understand in my still weakened state of mind. I still use my bathroom normally, and I do not fear my reflection; I am far too rationally-minded and sober to be so silly.
The human being is really a self-centered specimen. Beneath the guise of society’s standards, virtues and commandments we dictate ourselves to strive for, there will always be a moment where a truly ugly version of ourselves comes out; a primal, evil being that we are terrified to acknowledge. It is a presence of its own, something we desperately bury deep within ourselves for the entirety of our brief existences, and scream to stay away from us, to our dying breath, when it finally can claim us for just a moment in our death throes before our consciences depart and the body becomes a home to nothing at all.

We live our lives trying to be good human beings, to accomplish wealth in both familial relationships and financial security. We just try to be the opposite of bad. I’ve come to believe that, in a sense, it becomes our pursuit in life to deny this creature possession of our body until the moment we die, when we simply cannot deny it anymore.

“The ‘paranormal’ world is composed entirely of the nightmarish delusions of terrified and insecure humans around the world, enriched by centuries of cowards and uneducated bumpkins; people who would rather take stock in the undefined hullabaloo of “beings”, the metaphysical, the demons of their own minds, as opposed to the rationality and cold, hard truth of science and contemporary knowledge. None of that actually exists, there is nothing that we cannot explain or understand.”

For nineteen years, this has been my attitude towards the paranormal.

I do not trust in these words any longer.

Credit To – SD

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Dead and Buried

August 9, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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Dead and Buried

I buried my grandfather last week. A deplorable man who made the lives of everyone around him miserable. He left me with nothing but bad memories and debt. I wished him dead every day till he passed away at the overdue age of ninety one. I was the one that cared for him, and I was the one that found him in his bed. He was sitting up, back against the headboard. His heart had given out on the spot, killing him before he even went to sleep. His eyes just seemed to stare at me, an angry stare he often gave in life. I was left with his estate, and I made sure that his funeral be as cheap and short as possible so that it cause little intrusion to the lives that were obliged to attend.

In ages past my name meant something. That name died with time, however nothing damaged the family name more than my grandfather. Spending the dwindling family coffers on occult artifacts and our reputation on the eccentric. With my parents untimely death when I was young, I am the last of my line. Yet because of my grandfather, all am left with is a decaying estate and near empty coffers. Yet even after I left him rotting in the ground of a cheap grave I could not get him out of my mind. My dreams kept bringing his memory back. I dreamed of darkness, I was laying down on my back my arms folded on my chest. I tried to move but found walls on either side of me, and another not six inches from my face. I still remember the smell of fresh earth and rot. I could feel my arms as they rubbed together, dry sagging and wrinkled. I tried to scream but my mouth was dry and my lungs refused to take in air. I tried to strike out with all my limbs but I found hard wood encompass me.

When I awoke from my nightmare I found myself on the floor of my bedroom. I felt my night terrors must have moved me out of my bed, but I could not get the dream out of my mind. I was resolved to rid myself of my grandfather once and for all. I sold every last item the man had owned. All the artifacts, all the books, and every bit of occult nonsense that he wasted his time and money on. I took any price I was given for I did not wish to spare another thought for him. The dreams did not stop, but grow worse. I was visiting an old school friend when another dream, or vision happened. Again I was in the darkness, the smell and feel of the cage I found myself in felt more real than ever. I could feel myself, every inch felt different. I could feel the age on me, and know this was the body of my Grandfather. In desperation I clawed at the wood in front of me, I could feel shocks of pain as my fingernails tore off my hands. When I awoke from this dream I saw the concern on my old friends face. He told me that in the middle of our conversation my personality changed. That I grow agitated and tried to leave in a hurry. He said it was like I forgotten where I was. It was only with his skill in diplomacy that he managed to get me to sit back down for a few moments more till I came out of whatever possessed me. I bid my friend an apology and left his company not a few moments after I assured him am myself again.

By the time I made it home I felt a weight on my mind. I felt I understood what was befalling me. Even after death my grandfather seeks to take what is mine. The horrors of my fate were not lost on me. His grave will be my grave, his rotting corpse will be the new home of my soul. Again that night I experienced the vision, I refused to sleep till it came. I could feel it coming, as if something was pulling my head, and my sight away. The Silence I felt that night drove me to madness, kicking and hitting as if having a tantrum.Yet it was all for naught as I could not escape. When I awoke after, I know my time was growing shorter. It was coming soon, the final switch. I refused to let that be the end, my Grandfather will not have his victory.

The Switch would be soon, I have little time to prepare. This letter will be my final testimony. By the time I finish writing I will have taken a number of medications that will put me in a deep sleep. I arranged with the last of the money in my name to be buried in the woods. I will not give the names of who I conspire with for such a task, but I know them to be trusted as long as the money is correct. When I awake, or when Grandfather awakes he will find that his cage is complete. I won’t let him win, he will share my fate and be trapped under the earth till our corpses rot!

Credit To – BlueHero

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They Came From the East

August 8, 2014 at 12:00 AM
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“They came from the east”, he said. A pot of malt ersatz coffee stood steaming on the table between us. We both took it black.

“Fearsome warriors on horseback they were, a fierce barbarian horde, the most lethal mercenary tribe to plunder and pillage Europe for centuries. They fought for the Russian Czars against the Poles you know, and then for the King of Sweden against the Russians. They fought the Turks and the Persians in turn. They fought Napoleon. They fought for anyone who promised them a country of their own. They were the Cossacks and they were feared by all.”

“I was 23 when they came to our valley”, he said. “Of course, everything was different then, it was 60 years ago after all.”

I looked out the window, the crags of the Dolomite mountains looming over the valley below us, shadowy in the twilight. Their house was perched by the steep edge of the tree-line, one of ten clustered around a small church. Barring indoor plumbing and electricity, time already seemed to have stood still. A city girl meeting her boyfriend’s parents for the first time, I had been startled by a sheep peering into the bathroom window that morning.

“I was one of the only boys left in Lienz. At the beginning all my friends volunteered, and I was eager to fight too, of course. But the army didn’t take me because of a goiter. Years later, it was different. They were rounding up everyone they could get their hands on, boys of twelve, thirteen. Grandfathers. I would’ve been drafted except for a tractor accident on my father’s farm.” I looked at his blunt carpenters hands folded on the checked tablecloth, and I wondered if his father had been equally capable … and practical-minded enough to manufacture a minor glitch in his machinery when called for.

“The fighting was all but over, the war had really been lost years ago. Now everyone left alive was fleeing west, trying to outrun the Soviets and reach the Allied zones. American was best, of course, but we all trusted the British too. At the time.”

What did you know? I wondered, and when? What of your neighbours? Did you believe the propaganda in the papers, on the radio? Did your priest preach of sacred duty to the fatherland? Did your mayor hang the swastika with pride? Growing up in Austria, you are taught to respect your elders, but whenever I see someone of that generation I always ask myself – what did you do to survive? Or rather, what did you not?

“Stalin had it in for the Cossacks especially. They’d been vicious in battle against the resistance partisans and they hated the Soviets. It was 1945 when they fled from Yugoslavia. They fought their way through to the British, who put them in an internment camp here on the river Drau. Enemy combatants, you see. Prisoners of war who surrendered voluntarily.”

What did they look like, the men? I asked. “Men? There were entire families. Husbands and fathers on horseback with their women and children trundling behind them in carts. Old and young alike. Defeated they were, but proud too. They’d been beaten before, and regrouped. And they were safe now, under Churchill. Or so they thought.”

Yalta, I remembered. The treaty, a betrayal to some, the salvation of Europe to others. Churchill, Stalin, and Roosevelt – men with moustaches, waistcoats and cigars, divvying up a continent with rulers. Most refugees who had fled the east were granted safe haven. The Cossacks, with their democratically elected leaders and their nomadic freedom, were not.

“They settled in happily enough here, for the most part. Made friends with the villagers, helped with the harvest. They were waiting to see where Churchill would resettle them. Perhaps they would have been happy to stay. They certainly didn’t bother us. But they were to be sent back to Russia to face execution. Cattle cars came to the train station, this time sent by the British. Soldiers encircled the valley, the internment camp, trying to round them up. We could hear them all the way up the mountain. The screaming. Men. Women. Horses. Mothers threw their babies into the river to drown and jumped in after them. Men cut their wrists as the soldiers dragged them toward the train tracks, trails of blood wending behind them.”

And you heard this? I ask, you saw? “Yes. Yes.”

A long silence. We gaze out the window to the mountains beyond, as if listening for echoes. “Those they caught were sent to the Soviet Union, where they were shot. The Communists executed men, women and children alike. But some, some managed to escape deportation. They hid in haylofts, scrambled up cliff faces to abandoned sheep sheds. The mountain farmers helped to shelter them if they could.”

Did any of you shelter anyone in the years before, I wondered. Other refugees, perhaps the very partisans hunted by the Cossacks and the Nazis? There had been only one Jewish family in the town of Lienz before the war, or so I’d read, and not one of them survived.

“But most of them” he continued, “ran away and hid in caves. The British spent months clambering about the mountains, searching for the ones that got away.” He chuckled briefly. “Those caves, some of them were crevasses, narrow slits between rock-faces. Some were no bigger than holes. Tricky to climb into, but even more difficult to get out again. Kossakenloecher – Cossack holes – we call them to this day. When we talk about them at all.”

He paused. I wished for a cigarette. “Because some of the holes aren’t empty. We had archaeologists here last summer, searching for remnants. A medal here, a belt buckle there. But they didn’t get very far, didn’t climb high enough, or stay the night.”

Another silence, more tense this time. Do you mean to say there are still bones? I asked. “Bones… it’s not their bones I worry about.” he replied, and crossed himself reflexively. “Some nights, when the stars are out and the moon is low, you hear the river screaming. And some nights, even closer, you hear the rocks scream back.”

He makes eye contact for the first time in what feels like forever. “We put you in the guest room” he says, “it has a balcony. It’s looking to be a lovely clear night.” I dutifully assure him that it is a lovely room, careful not to to mention I’ve taken down the various crosses and icons hung from the walls, a constant reminder of my status as godless-city-girl-evil-influence-on-beloved-son.

He grunts assent and, rising from his chair, bids me goodnight. “I’d lock the windows and doors before turning in if I were you.”

Credit To – cinekat

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