St. Bruvia was always a hungry town. It was an old place, older than most of its residents, with crooked wooden houses leaning toward one another beneath heavy snow and onion-domed churches whose ringing carried across the river. Whenever a family moved into a new house, they left something beneath
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Entry One Entry Two It’s been a solid month since my unsettling trip to Tartarus. I still haven’t heard anything about the woman I picked up. I suppose that finding herself will likely take some time. Yeah, I’ve been thinking about her a lot–her, as well as myself, or who
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Entry one:https://www.creepypasta.com/i-drive-a-taxi-between-the-realms-entry-one-dering-wood/ Slow day. I love a slow day. Yeah, time can certainly drag when I’m just driving around waiting for something to happen–someone to summon a ride. But I can’t remember the last time I had it so easy. Sure, I’ve had a few short trips today, each easily
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‘I need a cab, at Lexington square, Richmond, Virginia,’ the text reads. “Where are you headed?” The reply doesn’t come right away. This is nothing new–not in my job. Sometimes, my fares are not so forthcoming with their destinations–something quite perplexing to me, given that they are requesting my services.
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The first time Alice saw that inkwell, she was in the old attic of her grandparents’ house, a dusty, forgotten room where time seemed to have stood still. It was tucked away in a dark corner, half-hidden under a messy pile of old books, whose yellowed pages smelled of mold
My names, “Otis Levenson” the Pizza Delivery guy. I’m a senior in high school, and I am an average student, who sometimes slack off. So, to make myself feel more productive I got this job. But unfortunately, it makes me feel even more worthless. Like imagine yourself just driving around
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Here is the journal I kept during my time at The Ash House. At times I was unable to write, so some entries are recorded by memory. At the time of this journal, I had just been dropped off to the Ash House by my old parents. This journal spans
Each year on December 5th, a person in my hometown is brutally murdered. The police are at a loss. With each victim, a poetic story is left behind. Below are the stories from the past three years. * * * * * * Fredrik loved to smile, for he was
The trail was too quiet. I knew she was watching me from somewhere either up the steep slope to my right or from the tangle of undergrowth to my left. I would have welcomed the snap of a twig to alert me to her position but she was the apex
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Peter Pan is not what most people think he is… or I guess I should say, would be, but honestly, he’s real. I have not only seen him, but have also… felt him. I met Peter Pan when I was about 11 years old. It had been a hard day
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A spectral woman stood in socks and sandals upon a stone overlooking a gentle brook, red dawn lips reflected in her silvery flute. I had lost something. Something crucial. Why was I here? Her melody, yes. Like warm honey to the ears. My legs ached and my head throbbed. Rest.
