Scary Paranormal Stories & Short Horror Microfiction

Creepypasta

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Last year I spent six months participating in what I was told was a psychological experiment. I found an ad in my local paper looking for imaginative people looking to make good money, and since it was the only ad that week that I was remotely qualified for, I gave them a call and we arranged an interview.
They told me that all I would have to do is stay in a room, alone, with sensors attached to my head to read my brain activity, and while I was there I would visualize a double of myself. They called it my “tulpa”.

It seemed easy enough, and I agreed to do it as soon as they told me how much I would be paid. And the next day, I began. They brought me to a simple room and gave me a bed, then attached sensors to my head and hooked them into a little black box on the table beside me. They talked me through the process of visualizing my double again, and explained that if I got bored or restless, instead of moving around, I should visualize my double moving around, or try to interact with him, and so on. The idea was to keep him with me the entire time I was in the room.

I had trouble with it for the first few days. It was more controlled than any sort of daydreaming I’d done before. I’d imagine my double for a few minutes, then grow distracted. But by the fourth day, I could manage to keep him “present” for the entire six hours. They told me I was doing very well.

The second week, they gave me a different room, with wall-mounted speakers. They told me they wanted to see if I could still keep the tulpa with me in spite of distracting stimuli. The music was discordant, ugly and unsettling, and it made the process a little more difficult, but I managed nonetheless. The next week they played even more unsettling music, punctuated with shrieks, feedback loops, what sounded like an old school modem dialing up, and guttural voices speaking some foreign language. I just laughed it off – I was a pro by then.

After about a month, I started to get bored. To liven things up, I started interacting with my doppelganger. We’d have conversations, or play rock-paper-scissors, or I’d imagine him juggling, or break-dancing, or whatever caught my fancy. I asked the researchers if my foolishness would adversely affect their study, but they encouraged me.

So we played, and communicated, and that was fun for a while. And then it got a little strange. I was telling him about my first date one day, and he corrected me. I’d said my date was wearing a yellow top, and he told me it was a green one. I thought about it for a second, and realized he was right. It creeped me out, and after my shift that day, I talked to the researchers about it. “You’re using the thought-form to access your subconscious,” they explained. “You knew on some level that you were wrong, and you subconsciously corrected yourself.”

What had been creepy was suddenly cool. I was talking to my subconscious! It took some practice, but I found that I could question my tulpa and access all sorts of memories. I could make it quote whole pages of books I’d read once, years before, or things I was taught and immediately forgot in high school. It was awesome.

That was around the time I started “calling up” my double outside of the research center. Not often at first, but I was so used to imagining him by now that it almost seemed odd to not see him. So whenever I was bored, I’d visualize my double. Eventually I started doing it almost all the time. It was amusing to take him along like an invisible friend. I imagined him when I was hanging out with friends, or visiting my mom, I even brought him along on a date once. I didn’t need to speak aloud to him, so I was able to carry out conversations with him and no one was the wiser.

I know that sounds strange, but it was fun. Not only was he a walking repository of everything I knew and everything I had forgotten, he also seemed more in touch with me than I did at times. He had an uncanny grasp of the minutiae of body language that I didn’t even realize I was picking up on. For example, I’d thought the date I brought him along on was going badly, but he pointed out how she was laughing a little too hard at my jokes, and leaning towards me as I spoke, and a bunch of other subtle clues I wasn’t consciously picking up on. I listened, and let’s just say that that date went very well.

By the time I’d been at the research center for four months, he was with my constantly. The researchers approached me one day after my shift, and asked me if I’d stopped visualizing him. I denied it, and they seemed pleased. I silently asked my double if he knew what prompted that, but he just shrugged it off. So did I.

I withdrew a little from the world at that point. I was having trouble relating to people. It seemed to me that they were so confused and unsure of themselves, while I had a manifestation of myself to confer with. It made socializing awkward. Nobody else seemed aware of the reasons behind their actions, why some things made them mad and others made them laugh. They didn’t know what moved them. But I did – or at least, I could ask myself and get an answer.

A friend confronted me one evening. He pounded at the door until I answered it, and came in fuming and swearing up a storm. “You haven’t answered when I called you in fucking weeks, you dick!” He yelled. “What’s your fucking problem?”.

I was about to apologize to him, and probably would have offered to hit the bars with him that night, but my tulpa grew suddenly furious. “Hit him,” it said, and before I knew what I was doing, I had. I heard his nose break. He fell to the floor and came up swinging, and we beat each other up and down my apartment.

I was more furious then than I have ever been, and I was not merciful. I knocked him to the ground and gave him two savage kicks to the ribs, and that was when he fled, hunched over and sobbing.

The police were by a few minutes later, but I told them that he had been the instigator, and since he wasn’t around to refute me, they let me off with a warning. My tulpa was grinning the entire time. We spent the night crowing about my victory and sneering over how badly I’d beaten my friend.

It wasn’t until the next morning, when I was checking out my black eye and cut lip in the mirror, that I remembered what had set me off. My double was the one who’d grown furious, not me. I’d been feeling guilty and a little ashamed, but he’d goaded me into a vicious fight with a concerned friend. He was present, of course, and knew my thoughts. “You don’t need him anymore. You don’t need anyone else,” he told me, and I felt my skin crawl.

I explained all this to the researchers who employed me, but they just laughed it off. “You can’t be scared of something that you’re imagining,” one told me. My double stood beside him, and nodded his head, then smirked at me.

I tried to take their words to heart, but over the next few days I found myself growing more and more anxious around my tulpa, and it seemed that he was changing. He looked taller, and more menacing. His eyes twinkled with mischief, and I saw malice in his constant smile. No job was worth losing my mind over, I decided. If he was out of control, I’d put him down. I was so used to him at that point that visualizing him was an automatic process, so I started trying my damnedest to not visualize him. It took a few days, but it started to work somewhat. I could get rid of him for hours at a time. But every time he came back, he seemed worse. His skin seemed ashen, his teeth more pointed. He hissed and gibbered and threatened and swore. The discordant music I’d been listening to for months seemed to accompany him everywhere. Even when I was at home – I’d relax and slip up, no longer concentrating on not seeing him, and there he’d be, and that howling noise with him.

I was still visiting the research center and spending my six hours there. I needed the money, and I thought they weren’t aware that I was now actively not visualizing my tulpa. I was wrong. After my shift one day, about five and a half months in, two impressively men grabbed and restrained me, and someone in a lab coat jabbed a hypodermic needle into me.

I woke up from my stupor back in the room, strapped into the bed, music blaring, with my doppelganger standing over me cackling. He hardly looked human anymore. His features were twisted. His eyes were sunken in their sockets and filmed over like a corpse’s. He was much taller than me, but hunched over. His hands were twisted, and the fingernails were like talons. He was, in short, fucking terrifying. I tried to will him away, but I just couldn’t seem to concentrate. He giggled, and tapped the IV in my arm. I thrashed in my restraints as best I could, but could hardly move at all.

“They’re pumping you full of the good shit, I think. How’s the mind? All fuzzy?” He leaned closer and closer as he spoke. I gagged; his breath smelt like spoiled meat. I tried to focus, but couldn’t banish him.

The next few weeks were terrible. Every so often, someone in a doctor’s coat would come in and inject me with something, or force-feed me a pill. They kept me dizzy and unfocused, and sometimes left me hallucinating or delusional. My thoughtform was still present, constantly mocking. He interacted with, or perhaps caused, my delusions. I hallucinated that my mother was there, scolding me, and then he cut her throat and her blood showered me. It was so real that I could taste it.

The doctors never spoke to me. I begged at times, screamed, hurled invectives, demanded answers. They never spoke to me. They may have talked to my tulpa, my personal monster. I’m not sure. I was so doped and confused that it may have just been more delusion, but I remember them talking with him. I grew convinced that he was the real one, and I was the thoughtform. He encouraged that line of thought at times, mocked me at others.

Another thing that I pray was a delusion: he could touch me. More than that, he could hurt me. He’d poke and prod at me if he felt I wasn’t paying enough attention to him. Once he grabbed my testicles and squeezed until I told him I loved him. Another time, he slashed my forearm with one of his talons. I still have a scar – most days I can convince myself that I injured myself, and just hallucinated that he was responsible. Most days.

Then one day, while he was telling me a story about how he was going to gut everyone I loved, starting with my sister, he paused. A querulous look crossed his face, and reached out and touched my head. Like my mother used to when I was feverish. He stayed still for a long moment, and then smiled. “All thoughts are creative,” he told me. Then he walked out the door.

Three hours later, I was given an injection, and passed out. I awoke unrestrained. Shaking, I made my way to the door and found it unlocked. I walked out into the empty hallway, and then ran. I stumbled more than once, but I made it down the stairs and out into the lot behind the building. There, I collapsed, weeping like a child. I knew I had to keep moving, but I couldn’t manage it.

I got home eventually – I don’t remember how. I locked the door, and shoved a dresser against it, took a long shower, and slept for a day and a half. Nobody came for me in the night, and nobody came the next day, or the one after that. It was over. I’d spent a week locked in that room, but it had felt like a century. I’d withdrawn so much from my life beforehand that nobody had even known I was missing.

The police didn’t find anything. The research center was empty when they searched it. The paper trail fell apart. The names I’d given them were aliases. Even the money I’d received was apparently untraceable.

I recovered as much as one can. I don’t leave the house much, and I have panic attacks when I do. I cry a lot. I don’t sleep much, and my nightmares are terrible. It’s over, I tell myself. I survived. I use the concentration those bastards taught me to convince myself. It works, sometimes.

Not today, though. Three days ago, I got a phone call from my mother. There’s been a tragedy. My sister’s the latest victim in a spree of killings, the police say. The perpetrator mugs his victims, then guts them.

The funeral was this afternoon. It was as lovely a service as a funeral can be, I suppose. I was a little distracted, though. All I could hear was music coming from somewhere distant. Discordant, unsettling stuff, that sounds like feedback, and shrieking, and a modem dialing up. I hear it still – a little louder now.

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Rating: 9.2/10 (1803 votes cast)
Tulpa, 9.2 out of 10 based on 1803 ratings
  • Leon

    This would make an awsome movie.

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    Rating: +3 (from 3 votes)
  • Storm&Grace

    This was a really great peice of work. Very chilling, and very well thought out.

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    Rating: +1 (from 1 vote)
  • Bill Cosby

    meow

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    Rating: +1 (from 1 vote)
  • Derp

    Amazing Creepypasta, I genually liked this story c:

    10/10

    P.S: Derp ._.

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  • Kenzie

    This oddly makes me want to create a tulpa. Huh.

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    Rating: 0 (from 2 votes)
  • http://julienbrightsidesart.blogspot.com/ Julien Brightside

    Seems like creating a Tulpa is a bad idea.

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    Rating: +1 (from 1 vote)
  • yep I’m gay

    Didn’t find this creepy, but did find it compelling anyway. Even though it’s one of many creepypastas I’ve read, it sticks out in my memory.

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  • Messer Lupo

    Awesomepasta! I really enjoyed this one. Very well thought out and thought-stimulating! This pasta was well-cooked and served on a silver platter then covered in awesome sauce.

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  • http://denizbirant.blogspot.com Davana

    Woah…awesome story. I absolutely loved it!

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  • Paralore’s Tupla

    This is so racist to us

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    Rating: +2 (from 2 votes)
  • Paralore

    Please ignore the tupla he’s a damn smartass

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    Rating: +3 (from 3 votes)
  • Natsu M

    After reading this a while ago I started to work to see what would happen if you did this, in a way it works, He/I come and go and can be summoned when needed but its interesting the extent the human mind works

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  • Shiv

    First time I heard it… apart from myself. A “tulpa”, I finally know its name, I’ve been with them for long now. I’ve been a loner for longer than I can remember, I spend too much imaging stuff, and started talking with myself. Suddenly I undertood there was something like the first form… someone who knew too much, a logic voice. I loved it, later after a mental break down I found another voice, a gray formless one and full of everything I’ve repressed so long and call for lust and hate, too dangerous and shameful to even describe. I’ve learned to restrain it but feed it. I still hear them both. Only told a person about it but he never spoke to me again. What to do? I’m serious. Please…

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  • Scarletta

    … Talk about a psychotic imaginary friend… this is a pretty good pasta! :D

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    Rating: +1 (from 1 vote)
  • savak

    you guys need to remember we cant see your face so posting a smile after a joke or something thats not serious or saying jk or anything els that lets us know your joking or smiling while you post can really help also nom nom nom

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  • http://www.deviantart.com@freedom2live Miss Rach Ragamuffin

    MY GOD. I just read your story and realized something quit unnerving….I have my own tulpa…A month or so back I created what I imagined was my “alter ego”, A copy of myself, but wearing clothes that I like but don’t have and wearing black eyeliner with blue-streaked hair (just like I used to have before it faded and turned a barley-noticeable blue/green)…Weirdly though, she was in a sort-of anime/cartoon form, the way I drew her when I was lost in thought. Her name is “Lehcar”but I pronounce it “Lechar”…I would talk to her when I was lonely (and alone)…..but she seemed so evil…Like, every time I asked her help on some issue or problem I was having, she would always resort to violence or burning things….I think this is because I’ve always been creative with a wild imagination…but I dunno…ever since I made her up, I’ve become more and more passive-aggressive and my thoughts more…evil…I…dunno…..might just be some issues I’ve been having.. But, god, I wrote this horror story that was just,…horrifying, whilst before, I had imagined Lehcar talking to me. I think I should stop this creation before it gets too far. I think this alter ego of mine has something to do with writing about a girl who finds her parents dead, with slashed throats…It’s eerie how, before I talked to Lehcar, I could not even think of what to write, and now after, Everything just seemed to flow. Word for word….And before I knew it, I had created a Fan-Fiction Slender Man story. Huh..I remember reading many things that stated that we all have some sort of evil lurking deep inside all of us…maybe I’ve created a way for my evil to manifest itself….as my other half..as my tulpa. This has some sense to it, but on the other hand, it makes me shiver just thinking about it….Okay time to stop thinking of this. I’m just scaring myself shitless and growing more paranoid with every second. I just have to say one more thing before I’m done:
    I’M NOT SCHIZOPHRENIC. I DO NOT HEAR OR SEE THINGS THAT ARN’T THERE. Just to clear that up so I won’t be afraid of getting comments about that.

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    • The Bloodthirsty Writer

      Simple logic: Some people go through identities like emos go through makeup.

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    • http://Courtesycraft.com Eeirail

      I would think it to be some sort of imaginary friend to be specific, I am not certain anything actually manifested outside of your field of mind.

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  • Lolz

    God, why does everyone have to fight?

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  • TheYellow

    That was a really creepy and cool story. This guy should make a sequel!

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  • The Bloodthirsty Writer

    You mentioned that there was this weird music around the Tulpa. I have reason to believe that it was Dubstep music. Hey, Derpbutt? Are you by any chance a Skrillex fan? I’m sure am. :D Simple Logic.

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  • The Bloodthirsty Writer

    I, for one, would love to have a half/real friend that emits Dubstep music. Did I mention that I would make the Tulpa a hipster? Fun. Fun is everywhere. Simple Logic.

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    Rating: +1 (from 1 vote)
  • http://chrisflomc@gmail.com Flo

    It would be great if the short story Psyhosis was the sequel to this.

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  • http://www.fuckyou.com Macbeth

    Now I want to make a Tulpa; for no apparent reason

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  • http://www.creepypasta.com Slenderisawsome

    I agree w/ sammyg Calm dowm it olny a commersial

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  • http://Courtesycraft.com Eeirail

    The simple fact is that this is based off something that could technically happen in a sense, I am not sure how bad it can become but it is something that people can do via overly exposed paranoia.

    I like the story; it is creepy and very unsettling. Although I must say I kind of want this to happen to me, I think I would like to have a Tulpa.
    Also, that is not the actual name of what the thing is called. It is more or less just a personal manifestation.

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  • Spacer

    I love when a pasta is so good that I come back for second helpings. 10/10, yo.

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