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West



Estimated reading time — 10 minutes

September 2nd 1868

Arrived in Cheyenne in the new Wyoming Territory early this morning on the new Union Pacific line. Has been three years since I rode the locomotive. Did not realize it would remind me so strongly of Atlanta. Spent the last day of the journey with the phantom smell of blood and iron in my nostrils, and the bile rising at the back of my throat, but it is over. God willing, I will never have to ride the train again. Cheyenne is new born and mewling like a babe. Immigrants from the east and across the seas teem here, filling the streets with a babel of tongues and the raucous laughter of drunken listless youths. The hound I purchased before leaving tugs at his leash with delight at the sights and sound.

The plot of land is still two days ride across the border and to the Southwest, but true to his word, the man from the bank has hired a guide to take me there. Sent a last letter to my wife and boys with instructions to meet me here in the spring, and have purchased a wagon and the supplies for construction. The guide, a half Indian fellow, I’d wager by appearance, but civilized in tongue, has helped me hire two young men: a Irishman with a sullen chinless face, and a German, watery eyed and stinking of bourbon. Both despicable wretches, but they have agreed to work for a pittance, and both claim to have experience in homesteading.

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They may intend to kill me, seeing an easy mark in a naive settler, but I do not fear these drunken children. I’ve seen a generation of these boys spilled open, and I know what they are made of.

September 8th 1868

Have crossed into the Free Territory of Colorado, after a day of the level prairie of warm wind of Wyoming, into the Front Range. This land is wild, in some… strange way, and like nothing I’ve ever seen. We are following a river through the shadow of two jagged peaks, and camp tonight just a few miles from the parcel of land. I requested remote, and by God, the bank man did not fail me. The Kraut and the Irishman grow demure and quiet without spirits, and I see no possibility of violence in them now, lest they suspect me of hoarding whisky. They will do fine quick labor, and return to Cheyenne to drink and fuck the profits.

These are men of dust, and serve only this purpose. To think, good men like me fought and died to protect these jackals from the reach of Lincoln’s tyranny, God grind his bones. I will be free of that monster soon, and if it should spread it’s federal borders this far, then I will burn my new home to the ground and move west yet again. Sons of bitches will have to push me into the sea before I swear fealty.

Found a skull just off the deer trail, when I went to make water; it was bleached white and divorced from jawbone and neck. I try not view this a portent.

Tomorrow, we should reach the plot, and begin.

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September 9th 1868

The bank man has lied to me, the foul stuffed pig. The plot of land, clearly identified by compass and map, is not the idyllic grove his words painted, but a swamp. A sodden hollow filled with mud and grass, ringed with broken and dying pines. I would flay my guide alive if I thought his wretch of a employer might feel a sting.

Am determined to homestead here, however. This may not be the land I desired, but it is mine, by God. The Irishman and the German fell trees for me, and I have found the highest place, where the earth is damp the least. I will tame this land.

The hound does not like it here. He growls at the horizon and pads in small tight circles, looking always behind him.

September 10th 1868

Guide has vanished in the night. He was to spend the next few days properly mapping the borders of my land, but he has fled. Worse still the Irishman and the Kraut have grown skittish at his departure, the German tells a tale of hearing screaming in the woods last night. But in morning light, the guide’s tent and belongings were packed away and gone.

It shames me to admit, but my first night was filled with unease. There is something about this land, unlike any in the East. It seems to breathe and pulse around me, like it watches me with a cold intelligence. The trees sing softly in the breeze and in the smallest hours, when sleep had fled into the dark, I fancied I heard whispering voices in the breeze. I will share none of this with the laborers; they are weak and callow enough as it is. If superstition infects them, I will be left alone here while they flee.

September 14th

My hands bleed at the end of each day. I drive the boys hard, but myself harder. The skeleton of the cabin is complete now, but there is much more work to do. I do not think they have the stomach for real work, these dogs. They slow, now that they see the rough outline, believing their work is at an end. I suppose a pig may recognize a barn by sight, but we would hope too much to think they understand a crossbeam and a proper roof.

My dread in the nights has deepened to a level I scarcely am willing to accept. In the ebon black of the night, I am an immigrant from a dead land into one that lives yet; each creak of the trees seems to come from my own shuddering spine. While I hear no birds or beast during the day, a fact that only now seems to have pertinence, the night is alive with the rustle in the bush. Occasionally, I hear the crashing stomp of one of the drunkards slogging to the tree line to void his bladder.

The boys have indeed brought out a stash of bottles, and they have taken to drinking themselves into a stupor each night, rationing the stuff to fend of the night. I won’t speak of it to the likes of them, but I know they share my unease. Their eyes are hollow each morning and I catch them whipping around to look wide eyed into the trees as if they’d seen their deaths coming on padded feet.

I’ve taken to leashing the hound at the edge of the clearing. He whimpers and shudders throughout the night, and when he wakes, he howls and barks at the sky. If he cannot make himself useful when the need to hunt arises, I will put a bullet in his noisy skull.

September 15th

The German is gone. I suspected at first that he had turned his tail up, back to Cheyenne. I was wise not to pay him up front. His companion, sick with fear and delusion, entered the cabin shook me awake to tell me that he had been carried off in the night, same as our guide. I boxed his ears and dragged him to their camp, whereas I suspected, his belongings were gone, but the wretch refused to work until we’d looked for his partner.

Combed the woods all day with no sign of the German. Some of the night’s alien gloom lingers in the woods throughout the day, and I must confess leaping at the smallest noises. The hound, finding his purpose again, tracked the German’s trail, only to find that it looped around the grove several times, spiraling outward from the cabin. The trail soon vanished, and the hound began to strain at the leash, pleading for me to return him to the safety of our clearing.

With the cabin in sight, at the edge of the trees I made an unsettling discovery. At twice the level of a man’s height, a canvas rucksack hung from the dead branches of a massive gray and rotting pine. More unsettling, when I opened the satchel, I found the clothes of a much shorter man than I had expected. This was our guide’s bag.

I will not tell the poor fear-crazed Irishman when he returns. To credit his bravery, he still remains in the woods as night falls. I hear him shouting his companions name as he follows the spiraling trail with no end. He is a fool, but braver than I believed.

The dark has swept over the land like the sackcloth of revelations, and there is ice in my blood. I can no longer hear the Irishman now, the sounds of the night, the still unfamiliar tapestry of living bodies and the creak of the towering pines drown out his cries.

I feel a foolish, but I fear for his safety.

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September 16th

Woke in the moonless night to the sounds of screaming, far in the distance. A whimpering, tearing shriek that stilled even the noises of the dark. I laid, unable to move in the bedroll on the wooden floor, unsure for a time if I had ever actually left the battlefield hospital of Atlanta and waiting for cannon and musket fire. But it was only the one lone boy, screaming in the dark, and I was helpless to save him. I clutched the rifle close, and the hound lay shivering at my side. The boy screamed, his voice coming from every direction over the course of several hours before it dissipated into a soft whimper.

We could do little but wait for daybreak.

In the light of day, I forced the hound back into the maw of the woods. I feel like wilting and crying each time I contemplate leaving the swampy ring of trees, but even an Irishman deserves a cursory search.

I found him near dusk. After following a now familiar spiraling trail, I reached the unnatural giant tree that once held the guide’s belongings. It was fresh marked with jagged irregular cuts that exposed the rotting heartwood beneath. The cuts went high up into the boughs, and I had to strain my eyes to see, but what I finally made out made me suddenly ill.

The boy lay cradled in two high branches, with his limbs dangling and cracked in a dozen false joints. His head was twisted, like he sought to imitate an owl, completely behind him. One glassy eye stretched wide next to an empty socket, and his tongue lolled from his frozen jaw.

He is owed a Christian burial, even a papist such as him, but I will need to fell the tree to fetch his body. I wish I had the strength and will to do it now, but the night of lost rest before and the day’s gruesome business robs me of the desire for much besides sleep.

September 17th

I am leaving this place. I lose all that I own, but if I leave in a few hours with the safety of the dawn, I leave with my life. I will see my wife and boys again. Woke this morning to a flinty gray dawn that never turned blue, but only drizzled a thin vapor of rain. The idea that I ever could have dreamed of living here sickens me now. I sat all day on the porch of the house, the very ground of the meadow looking threatening. The jagged teeth of the trees against the gray sky, and the lapping of the puddled water in the wind gave me the uncanny feeling of being inside a gargantuan maw that has been closing down on me since the moment I arrived. I was still determined then, to reclaim this land. To fill the bog and fell the trees, and make the fertile black soil work under my plow. How foolish, now.

With the fall of night came a whipping wind, buffeting me with heavy damp air. When the last thread of light had been cut, the hound stood to his feet and strained against the leash, hair on end and teeth bared. He strained on the leather leash that held him and began to growl, a low menacing sound. I looked to where he struggled to lunge, but could see nothing in, no horizon between ground and forest, or forest and sky. Just blackness.

When the leash broke, it made a popping sound, like a firecracker, and the hound bolted into the black. I heard the angry rhythm of his barking as he was absorbed into the dark. Then, it ceased, and I heard a sharp squeal. Then silence. The crowding throng of life that I had felt each night before was utterly silent, the only sound the dry rustle of the pine.

I shouldered the rifle and fired once into the dark, and my skin rippled as my insides froze. In the bright flash of the rifle, I saw a phantom impression of the world inside the gloom, pale trees and wet earth. And I saw, clearly, the corpse of the hound, wet and glistening. Beside it, was the shape of some… foul thing. Crouched on crooked legs, like the limbs of some beast, it held some dark portion of the dog in it’s splayed fingers. It was upright, and looking straight at me. All I saw of it’s face was the bright diamond glint of two eyes, and… teeth. So many teeth.

The gunshot rolled down the valley in darkness, and I heard no movement from the blackness beyond. With all the speed I could muster I fled for the cabin and barricaded the door with every crate and unused hearthstone I could find. Gripping the rifle tight, I did my best to lay perfectly silently, and swore to leave at first light.

When sleep finally came, it was fitful, and I awoke only a few hours later to a strange pinprick burning on my neck. I came awake to find the head of the dog, perched like a trophy at the top of the barricade, which yet lay intact and undisturbed. Around me were the hellish tracks of some beast, wet mud shapes that defied identifications.
I put my hand to my throat and felt a line of small drops across it. Blood welling up from a delicate scratch that ran from ear to ear.

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The room was empty, and still fortified from within.

But it had been here with me, moments before. It had marked me, toyed with me, and left.

And so, at first light, I will leave.

September 18th

I am 10 miles from the cabin, and I curse myself for a fool. With the morning sun the meadow steamed and felt somehow, safer, but still I packed my lightest valuable tools and left the cabin. Five miles down the road, doubt set in. I have stopped to eat on this small bluff looking out at the glory of God’s creation, and I have made up my mind.

Reading yesterday’s entry flushes me with shame, what a coward was! Whatever that thing is, it’s a beast, and I am a soldier. I will hunt it, trap it, and kill it. What God and Grant could not grind out of me, I will not relinquish to some wild animal. I will not leave my wife and sons paupers, I will be a man. I will return.

June 29th, 1869

Mrs. Augustine Shelby
Grand Hotel
Cheyenne, Wyoming

Dear Mrs. Shelby

We recently received the enclosed from a pair of hunters who discovered it in forests of the Front Range in Colorado Territory. Having been made privy to the issue of your missing husband, we felt it was best to inform you directly, and pass on his journal and a few other possessions.

The hunters describe the area in which they found the items in a way that agrees exactly with your husband’s description in the journal, but there was no cabin, nor foundation, or any other signs of habitation.

We are deeply sorry that we could not be of more assistance to you, and I pray that your husband will eventually be found.

Deepest Regrets
Colonel Benjamin Williams
Fort Collins
Colorado Territory

CREDIT: Josef K. / Cameron Suey

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96 thoughts on “West”

  1. I’m a HUGE fan of Josef K. but this pasta had a not so satisfactory ending for me. think there could have been more to it. It was good nonetheless.

  2. I think this is better than most "entity/unknown being" pasta’s. With the one exception being the grammatical errors. OS’s and Word type programs are too advanced these days to not take advantage of spell-check, then it’s simple copy/paste pasta!

  3. Enjoyed this pasta, nicely written for a journal style, and whilst it was struck by a certain degree of predictability that this genre of horror is haunted by, it wore it well, and still proved entertaining, and at moments, slightly eerie.

    The creature felt slightly underdeveloped, and I would have liked to see a little more description of it, but despite that, and the predictable ending, this pasta was very tasty indeed, almost excellent, but not quite. 8/10

  4. I had to read a few comments to fully understand everything, but it all makes perfect sense now. Only thing I would’ve done differently is find a way to actually have him see the monster or whatever it was so that we actually know what the hell it is, or at least what it looks like. That’s my only complaint, though, so I’d probably give it somewhere around an 8/10.

  5. It kills me when people who don’t even understand what’s happening criticize the story because they don’t get it. I think the site has been invaded by MIDDLE SCHOOL KIDS! But anyway I’ve read better and worse. Written nicely but I feel like the story could have been developed a bit better.

  6. Very nice. Flaws aside, you did a great job creating a setting. I liked the journal format! A decently written, entertaining piece of work. The ending was a bit frustrating though haha :P

  7. waste of time… why i disliked it
    1: usage of the word kraut…. incorrect time, moron
    2: cliché monster with nothing to it. basic creepypasta monster-
    big, sometimes glowing eyes
    lots of teeth, usually sharp.
    long, deformed limbs making it taller.
    long thin fingers/nails, usually sharp.
    3 too long with boring details that just confused me.
    4 no realisticness. how did it get from a old journal and letter to creepypasta? family heirloom? old finding?
    i love reading journal pastas but i dont like it… i only told three but i’m on my dsi so typing sucks

  8. he left to make a home where the rest of society wouldnt be a bother. the “racist” comments make no sense due to the fact that this “racism” was simply common referencing back then. actually he didn’t use much of the more racially offensive terms from back then. he did however insult the men directly because they were cheap labor. didnt know what they were doing and were lazy.

  9. liked the consistency at the end of the pasta. how he said in the beginning he was sending for his wife and sons and at the end his wife is where his journal began? good good :)

    the creature was unexpected. at first I got the impression it was a monster tree snatching people with demonic roots, but I like the idea of a creature lurking in the forest.

    the whole idea of the creature taking the items of the person confused me. only explanation I could think of was that the people tried to leave and got snatched then.

    people are also confused with the last entry from the character. the man goes back to the house to claim his land and defeat the monster, so that his wife and sons have a home with him. he wasn’t returning to them, he was returning to his fate with the creature.

    anyhow, good pasta. rate about 8/10

  10. BGGAAAHH! I love this. As soon as I saw Josef K.’s name at the bottom, I knew why this Pasta was so delicious.
    At the beginning I was angry because every sentence had deleted an “I” or “It” beginning.
    But this story was very great.

    Josef K. has wowed me once again.

    10/10 Awesome Pasta is Awesome.

  11. ok, people who don’t understand the wife and kids thing, back then men would go and build a house and his family wouldn’t join him until the house was built and it was safe for them to trek out there, and duh he sent a letter to her telling them to join him in spring, he stayed bc he spent all his money on the land, and would have no way to support his family, is everyone just dense or something??
    to the author this was an intriguing original tale good job 9/10

  12. Warm wind in Wyoming? Nigga you best be trollin. Nah, I only say that because I live in Cheyenne and that shit don’t exist, brah. At least not ‘now’. Can’t wait to take that trip to Ft. Collins!

  13. For all y’all that can’t read. By “that monster”, he means America. He bought the land. He left Cheyenne to go establish his home. Returning to your regular programming.

  14. Wow, some people can’t follow a story. Reread it if you don’t understand. although it must be hard to read with dislexya

  15. OMNONONOM Good Pasta is good.

    I read this about a month ago and it\’s just a good the second time round. What I really wanted to say about this is that I really loved the character. I grew sort of attached to him as I progressed through the pasta. That\’s something that I have always tried to accomplish as a writer, and something that I\’ve always relished as a reader. Good stuff, keep it coming.

  16. I really enjoyed this pasta.

    I was going to write a long post telling many of the above posters why they are dumb for making the comments they did, but KB beat me to it.

    Thank you for saving me some typing, sir.

  17. \"The boy lay cradled in two high branches, with his limbs dangling and cracked in a dozen false joints.\"

    I love the imagery in this line. Good story, 9/10.

  18. I liked it. Everybody talking about him returning to his family but they\’re right there, blah blah blah, is a fucking idiot. His wife and son were supposed to follow him to the homestead he was building. Durp.

  19. I’ve read this before on Josef K.’s website, but it’s still great.

    He noted above that he was inspired by earlier horror fiction and this story def has the feel of the kind of slow build we used to see a lot more of rather than the sort of vampire/werewolf fetish porn that horror has pretty much turned into now.

  20. To all the people confused about the main character’s family:

    When America was first settled, it was common for the man of the house to go and prepare the land (ie clear it, build the house, etc.), with the family only coming after the house was built.

    Probably this guy bought some land with all the money he had, and brought some hired help to clear it. His family are now paupers (poor) because all their money was invested in the land they bought. they were waiting for the house to be ready, staying in the hotel.

  21. Not bad at all. The final revelation of the creature along with the ending were generally disappointing but the build-up was atmospheric and sufficiently creepy to keep me interested. The grammar was good and written in believably vintage prose. Altogether a decent pasta.

    7/10

  22. @KB – if there wasn’t a roof on the place, why would he think barracading the door would do any good? as you said, he knows the thing can put belongings and whole people into treetops, not to mention all kinds of normal animals make their way from trees to roofs all the time.

  23. For those of you who lack reading comprehension-

    The monster he is running from at the beginning is the government. He is probably an ex-Confederate soldier, and running from the Union government.

    He is NOT returning to his family… He is returning to the property. When he says “What God and Grant could not grind out of me, I will not relinquish to some wild animal. I will not leave my wife and sons paupers” he is saying he’s not going to flee the land he bought(which probably cost most of his money) because of the creature.

    His wife is in the Grand Hotel probably because she was waiting for the cabin to be finished.

    Overall, a good story. Not very creepy or scary for me, though.

  24. For those of you who lack reading comprehension-

    The monster he is running from at the beginning is the government. He is probably an ex-Confederate soldier, and running from the Union government.

    He is NOT returning to his family… He is returning to the property. When he says “What God and Grant could not grind out of me, I will not relinquish to some wild animal. I will not leave my wife and sons paupers” he is saying he’s not going to flee the land he bought(which probably cost most of his money) because of the creature.

    His wife is in the Grand Hotel probably because she was waiting for the cabin to be finished.

    Good story.

  25. Enjoyed this a lot. It built up slowly and although it wasn’t long enough to develop the characters thoroughly, they were still interesting. The style was also consistent and believable.

    The monster was shown just enough to be creepy, and for the most part followed the idea that the reader\’s imagination can provide more horror than written description.

    I’ll agree with others – the ending let me down a little bit. It was good, but parts stretched my ability to believe. The house disappeared? Completely? Does that mean the cut down trees were re-established, too? Was this managed through magic, or through the physical efforts of the monster? A better resolution may have been for the house to be burnt to the ground. Regardless, it was a good read over-all.

    Premise: 7/10
    Writing: 8.5/10
    Characters: 8/10
    Monster: 9/10
    Ending: 6/10

    Overall: 8/10

  26. Enjoyed this a lot. It built up slowly and although it wasn\’t long enough to develop the characters thoroughly, they were still interesting. The style was also consistent and believable.

    The monster was shown just enough to be creepy, and for the most part followed the idea that the reader\’s imagination can provide more horror than written description.

    I\’ll agree with others – the ending let me down a little bit. It was good, but parts stretched my ability to believe. The house disappeared? Completely? Does that mean the cut down trees were re-established, too? Was this managed through magic, or through the physical efforts of the monster? A better resolution may have been for the house to be burnt to the ground. Regardless, it was a good read over-all.

    Premise: 7/10
    Writing: 8.5/10
    Characters: 8/10
    Monster: 9/10
    Ending: 6/10

    Overall: 8/10

  27. Okay for all of you saying that he was in the same town as his family, no, he wasn’t. He arrived by train to Cheyenne, then traveled AWAY from the city for days before he arrived at his plot of land.

    And about all the confusion about him “finding” his family, when he says this, “I will not leave my wife and sons paupers, I will be a man. I will return.” At this point he had already left the cabin after the incident with the monster. He is saying that he’s not going to abandon his new plot of land and future lively hood which would “leave his wife and sons paupers” which means leave them in poverty. He’s saying that he’s going to be a man, and return to the plot of land to get rid of the monster and continue the work on his cabin and land.

    Anyways, great pasta man, the writing is awesome and really builds up the suspense. Would of liked to actually read of him going back and confronting the monster though.

    8/10

  28. Whoa.

    I don\’t think I\’ve looked back at this story since I wrote it about two years ago, and there\’s certainly some things I\’d change if I were to revisit it. I \"feel a foolish\" when I see glaring grammatical errors like that, and I certainly have a few historical inconsistencies.

    This was the third or fourth story I wrote for /x/, and it has all the hallmarks of someone just beginning to write, in that it\’s structurally and tonally derivative. It\’s blatantly based of Lovecraft\’s \"The Temple\" which also features a hubris filled racist narrator. It\’s quite difficult to track down historical racial slurs, and the ones I used here are certainly anachronistic.

    WAT and DR ZOIDBERG, you\’ll note that more than a half a year passes between the last entry of the narrator and the letter to his wife. I thought that was enough to imply that his family eventually followed after a long period of no communication, or simply planning to join him once he\’d made the home (not an uncommon plan). She\’s certainly not in the same town as him when she arrives; I imagined she\’s come to Cheyenne months later in search of him. Apologies if that was unclear. Economy of exposition is a difficult game.

    As for the timeline, Ummm, yes, Lincoln is dead, but it\’s the increasingly powerful federal government our narrator is fleeing, and that\’s the monster he speaks of. Grammatically, it\’s unclear, so I understand the confusion. Being a confederate, he would have trouble with the homestead act, which is why his land is purchased from the bank in the free territories. He\’s trying to escape the Union, not expand it.

    Anonymous, bile in the throat is a fairly common expression, and while it is produced in the liver, it does enter the stomach, and the taste is often linked to indigestion and nausea. Yes, it does rise into your throat. It\’s bitter tasting.

    And yes, INSOMNIAC, this was implicitly a Wendigo story. The idea of it passing into his house and taunting him without killing him seems to work for some and not for others. In the end, I liked it, which is why it\’s there.

    Glad it was enjoyed, or at least discussed, and I appreciate the candor. Negative criticism is always more helpful than positive. Thanks, all.

  29. I liked it. And I think the reason the wife/kids were in the same town was because they traveled there expecting the husband to have built a home, only to find he was missing and the cabin mysteriously disappeared. The time between the last journal entry and when all this was reported to the wife is 9 months and 11 days, which makes sense if what I said is true.

    Also, given the nature of creepypasta, what the husband had accomplished on the cabin being completely gone doesn\\\\\\\’t sound out of place at all (A creepy-ass clearing in some woods, people and all their shit disappearing into the night and him firing at some weird beast-thing that was eating his dog and you guys are complaining about disappearing cabins? Really?).

    Haters gonna hate, I guess… But if you hate the pasta why do you keep coming back to eat it?

  30. For those of you who didn’t get it:

    He left before his wife and sons to go out and buy the land and build the cabin. They stayed behind, back east in Atlanta. They were supposed to meet him there in the spring.

    He left the plot of land (and everything he owned, basically) because he was scared. 10 miles away from the cabin, he felt like a fool for running. He wasn’t going to be scared off by some creature and just leave his wife and sons with nothing- so he decided to go back to the land- NOT back to Atlanta.

    At the end the wife is in Wyoming, where the husband got off the train in the beginning of the story, because it’s June and she was supposed to meet her husband out there in the spring. Having never heard from him, obviously she never knew not to meet him out there. Only when she got out there, no one could find him or the cabin. Hence why she’s in a hotel.

    For those that asked how did the monster get in and leave the dog’s head when the door was barracaded; the cabin didn’t have a ceiling, as you can read here:

    “The skeleton of the cabin is complete now, but there is much more work to do. I do not think they have the stomach for real work, these dogs. They slow, now that they see the rough outline, believing their work is at an end. I suppose a pig may recognize a barn by sight, but we would hope too much to think they understand a crossbeam and a proper roof.”

    This was on the 14th. That very night the German is taken, and the next night he can hear the Irishman being killed. Obviously the roof never got put on. So I’d venture a guess that if the monster could throw bodies up in trees that high, and tear men apart with such ease, then it could probably climb the side of a cabin and get inside. And if it could do all this, as well as take all the guide’s belongings, it could probably destroy what little was there of the cabin- four walls. That part had nothing to do with the man being “crazy” or not, as one commentor said.

    I know this is long, and I don’t leave comments on things often. But if you’re going to take the time to critique a story, at least know what you’re talking about. There were no “inconsistencies” in the storyline, and it’s most definitely not the author’s fault that you couldn’t pay attention.

    This story was very well written and gave me the creeps… great job. Sorry not everyone got it.

  31. ScaryStoryIsScary

    I liked the ending – leaves it unclear as to whether his settlement was dismantled by said \\"creature\\" or the whole journal was some sort of demented hallucination….

  32. You guys must be trolling.
    For one, it\’s clear that he left his family to ready a home, while they live elsewhere until it\’s secured.
    For two, there\’s a period of time after his death that he is unheard from, so his wife would probably end up seeking him out, what with the dependency of women in that era. Hence why she would be in the area he was last heading to.
    Finally, Lincoln did die, didn\’t he? What happens when a president dies? Oh, that\’s right, vice president takes over. Andrew Johnson, who was a confederate, was Lincoln\’s running mate, and basically brought an end to the Reconstruction era in U.S. History, while simultaneously throwing those lots of land — promised to prior slaves — to veterans on the confederate side. That\’s what happened to the whole \"forty acres and a mule\" bit.

    You guys are so damn dense sometimes.

  33. 5/10. It\’s like an extension of \"The Wolves of the Stillwood\" from Ichor Falls. Nicely written but flat and not really scary at all.

  34. Journal pastas are always exciting. Regardless of what everyone else said, Loved the story. I heard a lightswitch from the upstairs and I immediatley jumped.

  35. It has been a long while since I read a story like this.

    The writing style was very immersive
    the story compelling
    the premise very intriguing.

    The story kept me very interested, the characters were believable and the premise sent chills up my spine. In regards to the \"monster\" it was vague enough to leave room for imagination, but descriptive enough for a good image. The fates of the victims was spectacularly written.

    While none of the individual aspects of this story were perfect, a story is more than the sum of its parts, they all work together to form something entirely different, and the elements of this story worked perfectly.

    This will be the second time I have ever given this score, well done
    10/10

  36. Anonymous Stranger

    It’s cool. I was really craving a new pasta though, so thanks for the fix. Sorry, Josef. Not your best. Kinda typical ending. Not that I could write better. Looking forward to the next work.

  37. might’ve been a more interesting read if not for the glaring factual errors. he says “i will be free of that monster soon” referring to lincoln, but the story takes place in 1868 and lincoln was killed in 1865. there’s also the fact that he owes his plot of land to lincoln’s homestead act in the first place, except that if he had fought as a confederate as he implies, he wouldn’t be entitled to any land.

  38. I like the authentic writing style and skilled build-up of suspense. Then again, this is a Josef K work: Awesome as expected.

  39. A delicious and very well written pasta! The writing was consistent and built up the atmosphere very well. I don’t know if you were basing the creature on legend or making up your own, but if it was the former I’d guess it was a wendigo. Creepy f*ckers.

    All around this was a thrill to read!

  40. Gothic pasta is gothic.

    Also, I would have probably used the progressive knife instead of the positron rifle.

  41. It was well-written, but I would honestly like to see a change in the journal-style creepypastas. Whenever I see them, now, I know “Mysterious disappearance” is going to be how it ends.

  42. I feel as though this story had quite the potential level up until the ending. The ending was so incredibly predictable that considering this pasta to be stale would be being generous. You mines as well have replaced the entire last date entry with “he died”

  43. GREAT story. Up until the end. This was one of the most disappointing endings I\’ve ever read. I did NOT expect this from Josef.

  44. Great at first. Then it just got progressively more retarded. I’m upset because this had so much potential. Great writing, good story idea… but too many parts didn’t make any sense. I hate when this happens. :/

  45. that was pretty good. i must admit. kind of a wendigo theme (monster that would catch you and drag you over the snow and ice until you died). very well written.

  46. I liked this at first, I really did. The dog head part was kinda lame, but did anyone else notice he was trying to find his family, even though he was already in the same town as them? Did the author forget that, or…?

    I don\’t know. It was good at first, but then went downhill fast.

  47. WAIT WAIT WAIT.

    Beginning: “Arrived in Cheyenne in the new Wyoming Territory early this morning”

    okay, so he arrived there. We know that.

    Later: “I will not leave my wife and sons paupers, I will be a man. I will return.”

    so he’s going to find his family. that’s nice. though I’m still confused as to why he wants to LIVE there if his goal was to RETURN to them. :I

    End: “Mrs. Augustine Shelby. Grand Hotel. Cheyenne, Wyoming”

    So his wife was staying at the Grand Hotel in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Which is where the main character ALREADY WAS. WAT.

    Who wrote this awful crap and why didn’t they think about all this? Bad pasta is BAD.

    1. It seems you’ve misinterpreted, the father rode southwest of Cheyenne, after arriving by train. After the events that transpired at the swampland, his wife got word of his possible demise and headed to Cheyenne to set up a base of operations, as it were, while she investigated. Don’t shit on something you don’t comprehend.

  48. He woke up to find the dog head on top of the barricade? So the monster got in somehow without disturbing anything just to troll him with a dog head? Ugh. Ruined it for me.

    Also, he wants to return to his wife and sons? So wtf is he doing trying to settle down in a swamp? he even mentioned making it his \"home\". WAT.

    This was better than most of the recent crap on this site, but still very mediocre. The contradictions in the story is what killed it for me. And they found no cabin? That WOULD be interesting if they hinted that he was crazy or something.

    It seems like whoever wrote this tried to use multiple \"scare\" elements, but failed at the execution.

    1. If you’ve ever heard of a "sooner" it’s someone from the wild west era that hurried west to stake a claim on land that wasn’t already taken by government. This happened shortly after that era, seeing as it was a legitimate purchase from a federal reserve. Many families would be split such as this, having the father take farmhands west to settle the land before having the family move there. You should read up on western history, really good stuff.

  49. OH MY GOD I’M SEC-
    NOOOOO

    How morbidly depressing.
    And mildly racist but whatever

    I liked this because it had grammar, slight blood, and it was summat to read. This was okay but it wasn’t the best.
    6/10

  50. I liked it, although the ending kind of left me off and it wasn’t very scary. So was the creature a poltergeist or solid matter? A little confusing.

  51. Although I’m not usually a fan of these journal pastas, it was pretty delicious nonetheless, and DID creep me out. I’m so glad it didn’t end on a hanging sentence….

    7.5/10

  52. Decent story….good build up…less than satisfactory ending.

    Also, Germans were not referred to as Krauts until the early 20th century around World War I.

    Inconsistancy bothered me for some reason.

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