Creepypasta/Mediocre Creepypasta

Sometimes you will encounter a [[creepypasta]] that just doesn't quite do it for you. The premise may be scary enough, but your spine just remains unchilled and there isn't a goosebump to be seen. Maybe it rambles a bit, maybe the grammar isn't great, or maybe it was ripped off from a film you've already seen. Who knows, but they're not quite awesome.

Examples of Mediocre Creepypasta

Read on, if you wish to be slightly unsettled at times but generally unimpressed.

Loneliness

Think of the most solitary place you can imagine. The most isolated, lonely location you can possibly conjure up: a claustrophobic, dirty cell; the peephole in the door forever unused; an island eternally floating in a sea of darkness, the shadows hiding everything you can, and can't, see; a quiet, wind-whipped plain where no directions exist; a desert landscape, all sound muffled by the driving winds and buffeting sands, where half-seen shapes roam the horizons.

Imagine spending an eternity there. Terrifying thought, isn't it? Mull it over for a while. An existence with no beginning and no end, alone with your mind and nothing else.

Right now, it's a scary scenario.

When you get to the afterlife, it won't just be a scenario anymore.

The End

On his way home that night, as he walked through town, a man stepped out of an alley in front of him. He tensed to defend himself, but the man just stood there. Looking him over, he realized the man looked like a hippie. Something of a comedy caricature of a hippie, really. Long unwashed hair and beard, sandals...and a sandwich board reading "THE END IS NIGH". That, he thought, was unusual, even for a hippie.

"You want something?" he asked.

"The world's ending," said the hippie. "I need your help."

He stepped around the hippie and kept walking. High as a kite, he thought to himself. The hippie started walking after him, and fell into step beside him.

"Please, I need your help," said the hippie.

"Look, man, I'm really not interested," he said, and kept walking.

The hippie leaned against a wall, watching him walk away. The hippie wasn't all that disappointed; lots of people gave this kind of response. Another skeptic, he thought to himself, fingering the ragged holes through the middles of his hands.

Wake Up

It has been reported that some victims of torture, during the act, would retreat into a fantasy world from which they could not WAKE UP. In this catatonic state, the victim lived in a world just like their normal one, except they weren’t being tortured. The only way that they realized they needed to WAKE UP was a note they found in their fantasy world. It would tell them about their condition, and tell them to WAKE UP. Even then, it would often take months until they were ready to discard their fantasy world and PLEASE WAKE UP.

The Unmentionable Bargain

There's a small, inconspicuous building called "Padraic Willoughsby & Co." in the industrial district of Birmingham, England. Most of the time, its doors are locked and the windows are draped. However, on February 29th of every leap year, there will be a small plastic container outside the front door containing business cards. On the front of the card it says in large capital letters, "PADRAIC WILLOUGHSBY & CO., ENGLAND'S THAUMATURGICAL SPECIALISTS". On the back, in nearly illegibly small type it says "The blood of the innocent."

Any night after midnight one can come to Padraic Willoughsby & Co., and slide their card through the door, and the door will instantly unlock. Inside there is an empty room with white walls. No light reaches this room, except for a small sliver from the other end of the room. When you approach this room you will find that it is actually another door. When you knock on it, a voice will ask "What makes a man become exalted?" and you must respond with the phrase on the back of the card: "The blood of the innocent."

The door will open and you will come into another room, a kind of lounge. Inside it you will find around 5-10 people, depending on the night, sitting around smoking and drinking brandy, all in late Edwardian period dress. There is absolutely no conversation at all in this room, and it is nearly silent except for the phonograph which plays the exact same record over and over, ad infinitum. If you attempt to speak to one of the patrons, they will promptly ignore you and pretend as if you were not there.

Towards the south wing of the room you will find a large, round table, slightly different from the others. On it will be a quill pen and a document. The document shows all of your personal information: name, birth date, place of residence, criminal record, greatest fears, and so on. At the bottom of the document is a long line that asks for your signature. No one knows what happens if you sign it.

The Lighthouse

There is a small island in the Mediterranean Sea that does not appear on any map. It cannot be seen from any other island, nor can any other land be seen from it. On this island is a lighthouse, rotting from age and sea water, which is never lit. There is nothing inside it, save for a spiraling staircase that leads to the top, and an ancient, dusty bookcase.

The case is filled with unmarked books; bound in ancient leather, save for a single space. If you remove a book from the shelf, it will fling itself open in your hands, and the words inscribed in it shall start screaming to the air. You must wrestle the book closed and shove it back on the shelf, or the immortal evil contained within its pages shall break free, and you will be forced to take its place, with pages, ink and binding crafted from your own flesh and blood.

However, if you bring the correct book to the island, and place it in the empty space, the lighthouse will light. As long as it is lit, the world shall enjoy an unending paradise, for all the evil in the world will be contained in the lighthouse. And while it is lit, nothing can go in or out.

The only problem; you will be trapped for eternity with all the evil ever known or conceived, by man or God. And the only way to escape is to douse the light.

The Other Earth

Remember this:

Should you ever despair of life so much that you want to die, you have the means at hand and yearn to end your life, you have written a suicide note to those you will leave behind and you are prepared to die...at that moment, stop.

Get a pair of scissors. Cut away at the note until you end up with a piece of paper in the shape of a key. Go to a door, any one will do. Push the paper key forward and turn your hand as if unlocking an imaginary lock.

The lock is real. Open the door. There you will find it. The other Earth. The one that awaits to replace this one when it dies. That death is inevitable, but in the meantime the other Earth will belong to you.

Be warned: the other Earth is very different from this one.

The Old Hotel

There is an old hotel that has been around for hundreds of years. If anyone was to find themselves staying in Room 6 you would find yourself in an unknown place, where exactly at 12:16 A.M. the power will go out and you'll find yourself in utter darkness. If you choose to stay awake nothing will happen. But if you so much as close your eyes and fall asleep you will find yourself in an unimaginable pit of despair, where creatures of unfathomable shapes and sizes roam. You will be trapped here for hours, until the sun comes up. It is rumored that this room is a gate into Hell, and demons use the condensed evil of the room to escape into our reality through our minds. Those who have stayed in there rarely speak of it, for even recalling the night will put them in an uncontrollable frenzy.

The Corner

In almost every building, there is one corner, one small enclosure that no one ever looks at. It's the corner in the basement that has been blocked by a disused sofa for years; the thin space in the attic between the wall and the stacks and stacks of crates full of junk you never use, but could never throw away. The space that never sees the light of day, or any other kind of light at all. Where darkness does not merely dominate, but practically oozes out from around the edges of its prison.

No one knows quite how long a space must remain concealed for it to acquire this particular property, nor if there are any specific conditions that it must meet. But [[X? In My Y?|it is a far more common occurrence than you might think]].

In newer buildings, when this happens, the residents often report feeling cold when passing by, even in attics during the hottest of summers. Whenever contemplating taking a quick peek to see if there is anything actually there, an unnatural dread seizes them, and they leave the room quickly, if not quite running. Once left behind, the feeling passes, and it is quickly forgotten, or laughed off.

What actually happens in these forgotten sanctuaries of the dark? It is impossible to tell. For while many such corners have been exposed to reveal absolutely nothing, some brave souls have lost their sanity through nothing more than an ill-timed glance. The safest thing to do when encountered with such a phenomenon: close your eyes, rip away the area's covering in a single motion, then keep a tight hold on what you've pulled away. No matter what you hear or feel, do not get up, do not look around, and do not try to cover your ears. You might be one of the lucky ones.

Deeper Than Darkness

There is a moment each leap year, at exactly three minutes past three on the morning of February 29th. If you possess the courage, await that moment in darkened room, with no other present. At that moment, the darkness will deepen. If you were to hold your hand directly before your face, you would not see a thing. But you must not do so. No, for that would be to waste the moment. Instead you must reach out, into that impenetrable darkness.

And it will reach out to you.

An unseen hand will grasp yours. You must not flinch away, nor tighten your grasp. To do so will only slough away more of the decrepit flesh that covers it, and anger its unseen owner. Remain perfectly still, as the withered fingers move over your palm, tracing unknown patterns. Do not move an inch as it crawls slowly up your arm. And most of all do not even breathe as it caresses your face, touching what cannot be seen.

Should you remain still through this, the hand will be withdrawn and a voice will speak, so close you can feel its breath on your face, smell the scent of decay it carries. It will ask you for one simple piece of information: your name. Answer truthfully. Answer truthfully, and the presence will retreat, leaving only a whisper in the air as the darkness lifts. "It is done."

From that day on, untold good fortune will be yours, and mysterious power. You will lack nothing, and have everything. But in a year, perhaps two, your eyes will sting in bright light, you will feel your skin begin to decay, and the sweet smell of death will be upon your breath...

The Decaying Mall

There is a dead mall somewhere in Virginia that is in an advanced state of decay. For one reason or another, the mall still stands — there have been several plans, some of them quite elaborate, to revitalize the area, many of them calling for the original building’s demolition...but none of them have ever come to pass.

It is quite a shame, a sorry thing to look at today. In its heyday in the 1970’s and early 80’s, the mall was jam-packed, the place to be on the weekends, especially Saturday nights. It was upscale, fashionable, and always a happy place to go.

Years went by and bigger, better malls opened around the city. The mall slowly started losing tenants, until today it is completely empty. If you go in it nowadays, you will be astounded by the vast emptiness — every step you make and every word you speak will echo loudly. Where once scores of people did their shopping, met for lunch, and got together, there is now only eerie silence. Over the years, the happy, upbeat feeling of the place has darkened, more and more, until now many people avoid it...but can never tell you exactly why.

The story would end here, were it not for a very curious rumor: it is said on certain Saturday nights throughout the year, something very strange happens. If you go to one of the entrances of this mall, it will be unlocked. Push open the door, and it will give way — and you may enter.

Near a bench right in the entrance will be a shadowy figure — casting a shadow that obscures the darkness around it. This shadowy figure can be spoken to — call out to it: “I know your secret, and the secrets you keep.” Where once there was shadow, there will appear a face — a radiantly pale, withered old man’s face, with black holes for eye-sockets.

“No,” he will respond in a voice that will be like the slithering of maggots, “for I know yours.”

He will then ask a question — the question will be about your life, or rather a detail about your life, something that happened many years ago. The question he poses will be one you should know the answer to — but so obscure, it will be difficult to answer at first, if you can answer it at all.

You will be forced to answer — you simply won’t be able to respond with “I don’t know.”

If you get the answer right, the shadowy man will thrust a box into your hands, before dissolving back into the darkness. Open the box, and there will be a note, on which will be written the name of the person you were meant to marry or fall in love with. Only rarely is it the person you think it will be.

If you get the answer wrong, your body will be found the morning of the following Sunday, at the entrance to the mall you came in, mutilated and eviscerated so badly no one will be able to identify the body.

Moonlight Films

In many stores and establishments that provide videos of the less-than-savory persuasion, a business card is kept. Some stores keep it well hidden, locked in a safe, and will deny its existence. Others will show you if you ask for it by name. None will have it displayed in the open.

On this card is a name, "Moonlight Films", and a contact number. It is always a local number. Go to any payphone in your city and dial the number. The answer will be prompt but all you will hear is silence. Wait thirty seconds. Then you will be served.

A dry, monotone male voice will ask you a question: "Is the road from life to death dark?" The correct response is: "It is moonlit."

If you answer with anything but the correct reply, he will hang up on you. If you fail the first time, I'd suggest not trying again. But if the question is answered properly, the man will say one address in your city and then hang up.

Go to this address and you will find that it is a small, dingy apartment. The carpet will be dirty, the wallpaper flaking and wrinkled, the windows cracked. It will smell of tobacco smoke and decay. On the stained old coffee table there will be a paper bag. On this bag your full name will be written in red Sharpie.

Open the bag and you will find an unlabeled video tape. Take it and place exactly $10.99 in the bag then leave.

You can watch the tape if you like, but you don't have to. I warn you: it's not pleasant. You will see a room or chamber papered in dessicated skin, the furniture will be crafted from flesh and bone. The tape will last approximately 32 minutes and will depict the murder of a person and the subsequent crafting of their body into furnishing - lampshades made of skin, tables made of bone.

After renting the tape for one week, you must return it to the apartment by sliding it through the mail slot when the time is up. After that, never return to the apartment and definitely don't call the number ever again.

I'd also suggest you not keep the tape more than a week. The owners will not be satisfied with a mere late fee - and you know, a good home can never have enough accessories.

His True Name

Although the Jewish omnipotent entity we refer to by tradition as God was first called "Yahweh" ("I am") by the Israelites, legend has it that the high priest of Israel passed from one to another his true name, made up of 72 Hebrew letters that, when spoken, would summon his presence before the speaker. This was required for their annual ritual of asking for forgiveness of the nation's sins - by asking face to face.

So what would happen if you found this combination? And what could you petition? Well, Jesus did provide a warning, "Fear not those who can destroy the body and then do no more...fear him who, after killing the body, can destroy the soul." (Luke 12:4-5)

Negative Energy

Look behind you. What do you see? Invariably, there will be a wall somewhere in your view. Now stare deeply into the space on the wall that line up best with your eyes. Nothing will happen, but make sure you are clear on where this particular spot is. That spot contains all the negativity in your mind. Whenever you are on your computer, reading scary stories or whatever you do, sometimes you will get spooked. What do you do when this happens? You check behind you, that’s what you do. As you read this now, a feeling of dread will come over you. Check the spot. Nothing again, huh? That’s because right now, all the evil is locked safely in your mind.

Some people, upon learning of this "negative spot" resolve to remove the spot in an attempt to remove the negative energy. This is a grave mistake. You must never let harm come to this spot. If you do, you will have released the energy. Now when you sit at your computer at night, you will feel chills even in the summer time. The feeling of dread that only presented itself when you were genuinely scared will now hang in the air constantly. Within a week you and your loved ones will have a string of bad luck.

Within a month your computer will begin to act erratic and eventually break down. On the anniversary of the spot's destruction, you will dream of your most horrible fears. The dream will seem to go on forever, and when you wake up you will notice your vision has darkened. Every year on the same day, the dream will repeat itself, and your vision will grow darker and darker. After you go totally blind, don’t ever turn your back on that spot again. That is, if you can still tell where it is.

The Well

If you ever find yourself in LA's Old Chinatown, head into the square, past the statue of Sun Yat-sen, past the hip ultramodern toy store called "Munky King" and look for an import store next to what used to be a wishing fountain. Go into this store and head all the way to the back. You'll see a selection of weapons, Look for a weapon called a Jiujiebian, a sort of multi-sectioned whip. It must have exactly nine segments, no more, no less. This will be called the "chain of night" as of now; there are 48 notches in its handle. It will cost you $29.95.

Then after that, go outside and wait 'til dark. Then, as the moon rises, take a quarter from your pocket and cast it at the wishing well. As it lands focus on that spot exactly and slowly chant under your breath: "By the circles of Lao-tzu, the void inside of matter, I call forth the spirit that lingers here!" This phrase is best said in the original Mandarin, but the spirit will understand a sincere supplicant regardless of language. A girl will step out of the bottom of the fountain, about nine years of age. She will ask you: "Where has my mother gone?" you must respond with: "She has long since gone from earth, but look to the sky, and see her there!"

This spirit is not that of a little girl, but of a bog-hag, cursed to obey this one command regardless of who says it. At this moment, you must attempt to strike the girl with your newly acquired Jiujiebian. She will then snarl and fight back. Should you win, all the money ever thrown into the fountain will await you. If you fail, all that the folks in Chinatown know is that a bloody Jiujiebian lies at the door of the import store with a notch in its handle. To date, there are 49 notches in the handle.

Nightmares

A recent study by the National Psychiatric Institute in Boston, Massachusetts, concluded that no activity can account for the phenomenon known as nightmares.

Whereas many dreams come from unconscious desires, most nightmares seem to come from an outside source independent of the individual. In fact, when subjects are asked to recall nightmares they are almost always found in the same memory section as actual physical memories, not the section where normal dreams are replayed.

So, in other words, those aliens and creatures you see at night in your "dreams"?

They're real.

Notebook

Somewhere in the world, there is a collection of books. Perhaps it's in a dusty, unpainted shelf in the back corner of someone's attic; perhaps it's in a set of musty boxes in the basement of some tiny, obscure library. It contains a few hundred volumes, all handwritten, ranging from leather-bound volumes with yellowing pages two hundred years old through to modern spiral-bound notebooks. All of them are diaries, some by famous people, some by not-so famous people, but all by the most horrific madmen and murderers the world has ever known. And the collection is growing. For if you ever find it, you will hear a faint scratching sound, coming from the newest volume of the set. This volume will be new, and filled with blank pages, except for the first. On this first page, you will find the beginning of your own diary, written in your own hand.

The Closet

Open your closet, don't turn on the light. Make sure you have one match with you. Step inside and close the door. If the lights outside of the closet are on, this will not work. Nor will it work if it is daylight. The only room you need is enough for slight mobility.

Stand in the darkness for about two minutes, since that's all that's needed. Now, take the match and hold it in front of you and say, "Show me the light or leave me in darkness." If you begin hearing whispers light the match immediately. If you don't hear anything, and the match doesn't ignite on its own then don't turn around. If you light the match too late or not at all after hearing whispers, something will grab you from behind and pull you into what seems like a forever fall into darkness.

If you do manage to light the match in time and nothing happens after, open the door slowly and get out, then close the door but do not look inside. From then on, never look inside your closet without the light on at all. Some say if you leave your closet open during the night you can see the demon watching you with two red eyes that glow like matches.

Nonexistence

Do you ever wonder how scary death is? Think about it; it’s the one thing that we truly know absolutely nothing about. Some people may cite religious beliefs of an afterlife and others might claim they just focus on life, but it's really something that is totally and utterly foreign to us. And what if the religious people are wrong? What if death really is nonexistence...that it’s simply over once the brain dies? Terrifying, huh? Of course, the reasoning goes that you won't notice it, since you won't exist.

But...let's say a certain someone could expose you to nonexistence. Let's say this person could actually let you experience the state of not existing and more importantly, let you remember it. He'd probably be able to get you to agree to anything in order to avoid that fate. Tangentially, for certain people near death, their brain activity sometimes ceases completely for about three seconds and then returns, only to shortly die in a more conventional fashion.

As another aside, many hospital orderlies have noticed a man wearing a suit that they have never seen in any catalog or on any person before. Interestingly enough, when you ask them about the suit they will struggle for a moment, then reply that it’s hard to describe, but they are sure they haven’t seen it before. Ask them about the man however, and they will freeze up, spasm violently and reply, "What man?"

The Voice

If you ever are in an area of absolute quiet, still your breathing and move not a muscle. After a few seconds, you will notice that the silence has a sort of "sound" of its own, a kind of empty ringing tone. This is nothing unique; everyone will hear this, given the proper setting. An informed person will tell you that your brain is trying to interpret the lack of stimuli to your hearing and so creates a bit of a filler sound. This ringing sound actually serves a more arcane purpose, covering up a noise we are not meant to hear. This noise is not impossible to hear, and if you are persistent you can effectively "break" the cover-up sound.

The next time you are silent and hear the ringing, shout at the top of your lungs for about half a minute, then be abruptly silent. It will be different for everyone. Some will hear nothing different for dozens of tries. Others might pick up soft murmuring. A special few auditory heroes might clearly make it out on the first attempt. What you will hear is a voice that relays an account of events about to happen in the immediate future. It's like a sportscaster relaying the events occurring ten seconds into the future.

As time goes on, you will be able to make out this voice under increasingly noisy circumstances, to the point that it can be heard at any time by just concentrating. Such ability would doubtlessly be invaluable, no? You will be able react to any immediate danger, relate to people around you with greater ease. No one would ever surprise you. Now, of course you are wondering what sort of horrible catch this ability entails. Perhaps the tone of the voice is so horrible that it will drive you mad, or maybe the voice will only predict your death over and over again.

Of course this isn't the case, though, it’s a normal voice, your ears receive it no matter what, and it’s simply a matter of noticing. But there is a danger. For you see, where there is a voice, there is a body. And just like you will notice new sounds, so shall you notice new sights. More importantly, you will be noticed.

Gjoberdik

In Gjoberdik, a small fisherman's village in the country of Bulgaria, on the dawn of January 1st, everyone closes their curtains and hold their breath for half a minute. Hours after the craze of midnight's celebrations, children look questioning at their worried parents, but can not help to shiver in the embrace of their shaking parents.

One can hear the sound of bells being struck exactly 25 times last year, in this short time span. The nearest church however, is over 32 miles away. You will find no one out on the streets in these fateful 30 seconds, and [[Whistles go whoo|even the birds will stop whistling]].

Some have gone out of their houses, roaring boldly in disbelief of this century old tradition. On the first sunset of this year, two people gambled their fate in the very first rays of sunlight.

The next dawn, the bells will be struck 27 times.

Soon all people in the village either moved away or died off, some unfortunate souls were even caught outside on these nights. Then one January, as the last remaining living person passed away, the bell rang once, just once. Now when travellers pass through the area, there is no sign of Gjoberdik. It cannot be found on any map or seen at any time, but on January 1st, right after midnight, a barely audible bell can be heard in the fog.

X-Ray Specs

For a brief period in 1971, a New Jersey based company sold novelty "x-ray" glasses through the mail via advertisements in the Marvel line of comic books. People who viewed their televisions while wearing these glasses reported seeing images that were "hellish" or "like Hell". It should be noted that this phenomena occurred whether the televisions in question were turned on or not. The company quickly went out of business and investigations reveal that the company's address leads to an old graveyard that had been abandoned decades before.

The Echo

It's there - just at the veil of sleep. That dull sensation of falling or spinning just before you fall to sleep. The next time you go to bed, try to hold yourself there. Just as you drift off, hold onto that feeling. Hold on, and listen. Listen close, for you cannot hold onto that edge of sleep for long. There, in the space before sleep, is a sound: a gentle hum, a distant echo; like a sigh in a brick building. Listen well, and remember that sound. That is the sound of your last breath.

Mereana Mordegard Glesgorv

There is a video on YouTube named "Mereana mordegard glesgorv". If you search this, you will find nothing. The few times you find something, all you will see is a 20 second video of a man staring intently at you, expressionless, then grinning for the last two seconds. The background is undefined. This is only part of the actual video.

The full video lasts two minutes, and was removed by YouTube after 153 people who viewed the video gouged out their eyes and mailed them to YouTube's main office in San Bruno. Said people had also committed suicide in various ways. It is not yet known how they managed to mail their eyes after gouging them out. And the cryptic inscription they carve on their forearms has not yet been deciphered.

YouTube will periodically put up the first 20 seconds of the video to quell suspicions, so that people will not go look for the real thing and upload it. The video itself was only viewed by one YouTube staff member, who started screaming after 45 seconds. This man is under constant sedatives and is apparently unable to recall what he saw. The other people who were in the same room as him while he viewed it and turned off the video for him say that all they could hear was a high pitched drilling sound. None of them dared look at the screen.

The person who uploaded the video was never found, the IP address being nonexistent. And the man on the video has never been identified.

Extra Credit

A university in Canada has two unusual things about it. One is a series of tunnels running under all the buildings. These were built for convenience in transporting things from one building to the next, and for students traveling from class to class during the winter. One building, the experimental psychology building was never attached to this tunnel system. There is only one door out of the building, and a keycode is needed to enter or leave.

The second unusual thing is that all first-year psychology students are encouraged to submit their names to the experimental psychology department to be test subjects for harmless research. And for extra credit of course.

Hotel California

They say that somewhere in western America, some say in Utah, others say on the California coast, there's a certain small motel on the side of the road.

When you go inside, it's decorated in very common hotel decor, with the ornate paneling and old-fashioned key-lock doors.

The thing is, there's a room in there for everybody. Everybody has a reservation for exactly when they show up, and the number of rooms available is always one more than the number of people there. One person to a room, that is the rule.

Some say that the song "Hotel California" is based off this motel, though you can leave this particular motel.

I wouldn't advise looking at a mirror for at least a month after doing so, though.

TV

In some television markets, people get two different versions of the same channel. This is usually caused by affiliates being nearby–for example, while living in New Jersey receiving the ABC affiliate from both New York City and Philadelphia, or living in Southern California and getting both the Los Angeles and San Diego stations. For the most part, these appear to be the same channel in all except local news and some daytime programming, with the exception that one is actually closer and more clear than the other.

These channels, in reality, should not occur. Television markets are set up to focus around ONE city, and offering two different versions of the same channel in one market can split viewer-ship in the ever-competitive ratings race.

If you are to watch the channel with worse reception, from the city that is further away, you’ll start to notice that the news reports major events that never occurred, on people that aren’t real, on technology that shouldn’t exist, the ads are for products that you’ve never heard of.

The conspiracy theorists think that these television stations belong to an alternate world. They point to the fact that the news tends to be getting worse over there, more separate from our own. There are reports of looking into an alternate world, and invading it for their own. Just pray they aren’t talking about us.

The Cabin

In the fall of 1998, a woman's left hand was found buried in a remote portion of New England's Great North Woods. The ensuing investigation quickly centered on a nearby abandoned cabin which was completely unknown both in official records and among the local population, and whose walls were covered partially with an English-language rant about a “woman with no face” and partially with a still-undeciphered script vaguely reminiscent of the Basque language.

After several fruitless months, the still-unsolved case was closed, leaving a number of questions unanswered: why a later search revealed only undisturbed, decade-old forest where the cabin had once been, why several police officers who spent time inside the cabin reported disturbingly vivid nightmares involving cannibalism or self-mutilation – and why many of those nightmares occurred long before the hand was discovered.

The Monkey Doll

I once owned a monkey doll which had a very pale face. Every night I have the very same nightmare about this one day. Here's how it started. One day on my way home from school I tripped on some pink fluffy thing. I picked it up and saw that it was a monkey plush. I took it home and kept it ever since, but while I had it strange things were happening.

My mom pretends to not know who I am and my brother won't talk to me and always sits locked inside his room. The plush is following me. Wherever I go the doll is always there.

One night it at 3:00 AM I was sleeping peacefully but then I was woken up by a loud banging and screaming noise. I jumped out of my bed and ran downstairs to see what all the noise was only to find my mom's dead body laying on the kitchen floor with her stomach open with guts spilling out, and on top of her dead corpse was the monkey doll. In its hand was a bloody knife. I rushed to ny brothers room to find that my brother was not there. I searched the whole house but my brother was nowhere to be found.

I tried to call my friend for help but all I could hear on the phone was a really statical whisper wich said "You are next". After that I threw the phone. I turned around and saw the monkey doll sitting there, staring at me with the bloody knife, then it was gone. Later that day I went to my room and saw the monkey doll on the shelf I grabbed it, took it outside ,and burned it. I went back to my room to see "i will be back" written on my wall in blood. My new family has been normal ever since that day.

You Never Know Who You Might Meet

“Good evening, Sacramento.” The newscaster’s serious voice filled the silence of my living room. “There are currently still no leads in the murder cases of 3 young girls that occurred in the area. Emilia Lasader, Jessica Grayson, and Ariana Sturn were all found raped and brutally murdered in the past month. All three of the bodies were found in a similar position, lying in an empty bathtub, with one leg over the other. Surprisingly, no blood was found at any of the scenes. It is believed that bleach had been used, but investigators are unsure. At this point, the most we can do is advise you all to lock your doors at night, and keep a watchful eye on your children at all times.”
I let out a bitter chuckle and switched off the television. What was I even doing here? I was sitting on my sofa, watching the news. What a waste. Since the day was still light, I figured I could go hang out at the park for a while. You never know who you might meet. I noticed that there were less people out than usual. Cowards, I thought. Afraid of a killer who goes after LITTLE GIRLS. Murderers killed people who were tempting to them, or had something to offer. As far as I could tell, these citizens were ugly and certainly not children. I arrived at the local park near the primary school quickly, scanning the area for that special woman who looked as though she could fulfill my desires. I found her, and was absolutely haunted by her looks. Big brown eyes, peaches-and-cream skin, and best of all, golden curls that framed her delicate face like a halo. With her was an older woman. The woman had long black hair and dark green eyes. The vibe I got from her was intense, almost frightening in a way. After introducing myself, I discovered that the females’ names were Brittany and Shia. Shia was the black-haired one, Brittany was the blonde. Apparently Brittany and Shia were living together, in a small home near the outskirts of town. After a useless half hour of talking, I found myself right where I wanted to be, sitting in Shia’s living room, cuddling my sweet little Britt. Shia’s emerald eyes were fixed on me intently, as if she was trying to look into my soul. The odd vibe doubled practically every minute I was close to Shia. It went from odd to frightening, to jealous to almost murderous. Not that I was really scared of her, considering I could take her down so easily it was laughable. The evening spent with this psycho was nearly unbearable, but being close to Brittany was worth it. Touching her creamy skin…taking in the aroma…running my nails, jagged and now showcasing a reddish tint in the top, over her limp body…I ached with desire at hearing her screams. Brittany fought a little at first, but we got through that phase quickly and hopefully quietly. Her and I lounged in the bathtub later that night. I laughed at the way her facial expression never changed, the way her legs remained wrapped around me no matter how I moved. Shia walked in on us soon after, her anger was unavoidable. I dealt with her in record time though, ignoring her shouts and blows. Before exiting the house, I treated my sweet little Britt to one last scrub down and even drained the tub for her.
Life went on as usual, meeting new girls, spending evenings in new places, watching people cower as each murder remained unsolved…
“Good evening Sacramento.” The ever so familiar monotone voice said. “Another tragedy has occurred in our city. Six year old Brittany Hardin was found dead in her home early this morning. There appeared to be no blood or sign of forced entry in the home, but Brittany’s guardian’s whereabouts are currently unknown. Hardin’s murder is thought to be connected to the recent murders of Ariana Sturn, Jessica Grayson, and Emilia Lasader…” As the voice droned on, a photograph appeared on the screen with the caption “RIP Brittany” The female in the picture had big brown eyes, peaches and cream skin, and best of all, golden curls that framed her delicate face like a halo. I ran my fingers through my new woman’s black tresses while switching off the television. It’s a shame that some people died so young.

Her

Stop. No, don’t look. It just encourages them.

You know who I’m talking about. Them. More specifically, her. Keep those eyes focused here, don’t look. Don’t even glance. Use your peripherals, because I know you see her. Just at the very edge of your vision?

Glance to the left side of the monitor, but don’t glance beyond it. There, your peripherals should have picked up a bit more. You saw her in the corner, didn’t you? You saw her black hair billowing across her pale face, the loose nightgown she wears over her emaciated frame. She’s been there for a while, just waiting. That’s how they spend their time. The spirits of the damned. The ones unfit for heaven, yet avoiding hell. The ones who walk the Earth with their sins on their shoulders. They live in constant, insurmountable, indescribable pain. The story goes that when St. Peter takes pity on a soul who has committed a grave sin, like murder, rape, torture, cannibalism, or worse, he punishes that soul and sends them back to our plane, to exist among the living until they’ve successfully repented for their sins. But first, he rips out their eyes, so that they can covet nought. Then he tears their jawbone from their skull, so that they cannot speak evils.

No, don’t look. She has moved closer, but that is only her curiosity. She can’t actually see you, not as you could see her. She sees in outlines, in blurs and motions. Her empty sockets let her see a person’s soul, yet it is useless to her. She lives not on the person, but on the body. Her spirit hungers for communion of the flesh, but she is eternally denied. Only the Savior can be a proper conduit of communion, to satisfy her cravings. She has tried, though. She has tried often in the past.

She certainly has taken an interest in you, hasn’t she? You see, she feeds on the living. She, like many before her, found humans to alleviate her ailments. She starves for communion, but humans like yourself can work as a…placebo, of sorts. She’ll try to get you to turn, to see into the voids which take residence over where her eyes used to be. She’ll pull you in, hypnotizing you with the dark, hollow sockets. She’ll close in even more, excitedly exhaling on your supple skin. She'll jab her rotted teeth into your slender neck and lap the blood with her flopping tongue. I’ll scrape in with my fangs and scoop out your flesh like ice cream. I'll yelp with glee at the warmth of your innards as I slash into your fatty abdomen. I’ll pull the bones from their sinew and suck the marrow out like a candied filling. I’ll jab my bony fingers into your eyes and take them for my own. I’ll rip your jawbone from your skull and use it as my own. I’ll become whole again, with your help.

But it'll only work–
–if you look.

Suicide King

Modern playing cards are filled with layers of meaning and symbology that can be traced back centuries. The four kings, for example, are all based off of real rulers: the king of diamonds represents the wealthy Julius Caesar, the king of clubs is the brutal Alexander the Great, Spades represents the strong but kind David of Israel and Hearts represents the... Emotionally disturbed, shall we say, Charles VII of France. It is this king that we will be dealing with today. It should also be noted that Charles was the only one of the four who was actually there to see the day that his face was printed on a playing card, which may rationalize why he acted apart from the others.

Charles' visage was put on the king of hearts at the very beginning of his rule, but he never really got a chance to come into contact with playing cards until many years later when he became very ill with a fever and was informed that he would be bedridden for the rest of his life. It was during this period that Charles began learning card games to pass the time, such as an early version of black jack, "vingt-et-un" (twenty one).

Charles lay in his bed for two years, constantly fiddling with the cards and always getting weaker. As time continued to pass, there were reports that Charles had begun obsessing over the idea that the king being the thirteenth card in a suit was causing him bad luck. He talked about how he was starting to see the number pop up everywhere and that he was close to figuring out its secret. Of course, his ramblings were blamed on the fever, and by the end of the second year, he had been declared insane, and his son Louis XII took over the thrown.

One day, several months after the end of his reign, one of Charles' physicians went to his chamber to find the frail old man standing in the middle of the room wielding a large sword. Before the doctor could react, the king said, "Ils m'ont montré la vérité de treize, et il n'est pas signifié pour les yeux mortels." which roughly translates to, "They have shown me the truth of thirteen, and it is not meant for mortal eyes." Without hesitation the king proceeded to ram the blade in through the left side of his head (between the ear and temple) until it came out the other side. He wavered a moment, before collapsing to the floor dead.

After the incident was announced and it was made public that the king had gone mad, the image of Charles on the king of hearts was altered to show himself offing himself. Although the picture is now shown significantly less graphically, the image of Charles thrusting the sword into his skull can still be found on modern day playing cards.

Perhaps the strangest part of the whole story, however, is the day that Charles chose to kill himself: 7/6/1462. Whether or not it was intentional of the king, the facts that 6+7=13 and 1+4+6+2=13 can only be explained as coincidences.

The Notebook

Somewhere in the world, there is a collection of books. Perhaps it's in a dusty, unpainted shelf in the back corner of someone's attic; perhaps it's in a set of musty boxes in the basement of some tiny, obscure library. It contains a few hundred volumes, all handwritten, ranging from leather-bound volumes with yellowing pages two hundred years old through to modern spiral-bound notebooks. All of them are diaries, some by famous people, some by not-so famous people, but all by the most horrific madmen and murderers the world has ever known. And the collection is growing. For if you ever find it, you will hear a faint scratching sound, coming from the newest volume of the set. This volume will be new, and filled with blank pages, except for the first. On this first page, you will find the beginning of your own diary, written in your own hand.

Dark Harvest

There is a new crime ring that is targeting business travelers. This ring is well organized, well funded,has very skilled personnel, and is currently in most major cities and recently very active in New York.

The crime begins when a business traveler goes to a lounge for a drink at the end of the work day. A person in the bar walks up as they sit alone and offers to buy them a drink. The last thing the traveler remembers until they wake up in a hotel room bath tub, their body submerged to their neck in ice, is sipping that drink. There is a note taped to the wall instructing them not to move and to call 911. A phone is on a small table next to the bathtub for them to call. The business traveler calls 911 who have become quite familiar with this crime. The business traveler is instructed by the 911 operator to very slowly and carefully reach behind them and feel if there is a tube protruding from their lower back. The business traveler finds the tube and answers, "Yes." The 911 operator tells them to remain still, having already sent paramedics to help. The operator knows that both of the business traveler's kidneys have been harvested.

El Diablo

It was Halloween 1975 at the El Camaroncito Nite Club off Old Highway 90 [San Antonio] when a handsome stranger waltzed in and turned all the women's heads.

A brilliant dancer, he had all the moves. Even the shyest girl in the room, says local historian and author Docia Williams, couldn't resist his request for a cumbia.

"But something strange happened when they were dancing," Williams said. "For a moment the enchanted woman broke out of her almost hypnotic trance and she glanced to the floor. 'Your feet! Your feet!' she screamed, and tore herself from the tight embrace of her partner."

Horrified patrons stared at the dance floor and saw long, skinny claws protruding from the stranger's trouser cuffs - chicken feet.

"It's the sign of the devil," Williams said. "Other women began to scream and say prayers."

Suddenly, the stranger disappeared into the men's restroom and left without a trace.

That is, except for a strong smell of sulphur - the devil's scent.

There's room for one more

A young woman on her way to town broke her journey by staying with friends at an old manor house. Her bedroom looked out to the carriage sweep at the front door. It was a moonlit night, and she found it difficult to sleep. As the clock outside her bedroom door struck 12, she heard the noise of horses' hooves on the gravel outside, and the sound of wheels.

She got up and went over to the window to see who could be arriving at that time of night. The moonlight was very bright, and she saw a hearse drive up to the door. It hadn't a coffin in it; instead it was crowded with people. The coachman sat high up on the box: as he came opposite the window he drew up and turned his head. His face terrified her, and he said in a distinct voice, "There's room for one more."

She drew the curtain, ran back to bed, and covered her head with the bedclothes. In the morning she was not quite sure whether it had been a dream, or whether she had really got out of bed and seen the hearse, but she was glad to go up to town and leave the old house behind her.

She was shopping in a big store which had an elevator in it — an up-to-date thing at that time. She was on the top floor, and went to the elevator to go down. It was rather crowded, but as she came up to it, the elevator operator turned his head and said, "There's room for one more."

It was the face of the coachman of the hearse. "No, thank you," said the girl. "I'll walk down." She turned away, the elevator doors clanged, there was a terrible rush and screaming and shouting, and then a great clatter and thud. The elevator had fallen and every soul in it was killed.