Recent posts by knoxknoxknox on Kongregate

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Topic: Off-topic / Gippo Dudee

Gippo Dudee is a famous namefig from 4chan’s [s4s] funposting board. He is widely regarded as one of the board’s best original posters and is thus held in high regard by almost all of those who frequent [s4s]. He is commonly associated with the phrase:

“Incase you didn’t know, /s4s/ is property of Gippo Dudee, so kindly fuck off. "

thus, it is seen that [s4s] regards Gippo Dudee as their king and captain. Despite the fact it is believed Gippo no longer posts using this name, those who admire his work continue to honor him by adopting his personage, flooding the board with daily reminders.

 
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Topic: Off-topic / Acid Trip

Acid Trip refers to visual, auditory or sensational hallucinations caused by mental illnesses or drugs like LSD.
Beside of any real hallucinogens, acid trip can be also mentioned on trippy videos, images or gif series.

 
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Topic: Forum Games / Picture Wars (6)

 
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Topic: Forum Games / FHL (Fictional Hockey League) Coach and Team Signups

I put a list of teams you guys can have, if you have an idea of a team then ask me.

Space Jam- SypherKhode822

Pacific Rim- GotterakaThing

My Little Pony-

Adventure Time-

The Simpsons-

King of the Hill-

Family Guy-

American Dad-

Harry Potter-

Doctor Who-

Ed, Edd and Eddy-

Fosters Home of Imaginary Friends-

Pokemon-

Super Mario-

Game of Thrones-

Sonic the Hedgehog-

Star Wars-

Spongebob Squarepants-

Frozen-

The Hobbit-

Bobs Burgers-

Futurama-

Grand Theft Auto-

Book your teams.

 
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Topic: Forum Games / FHL (Fictional Hockey League) OPTION 2

Im gonna put option 2 up here, the first thread was a league with no trades and no custom teams. Im just going to see which option you guys wanted

This one is your gonna be the coach AND the general manager. You pick your OWN players and post them on here. Create your own line ups. 19 PLAYERS ON EACH TEAM

Offensive Line 1-4: 3 players
Defensive Line 1-3: 2 players
1 goalie

Post your players and Line ups on here.

For example you could put an offensive line with Charlie Brown, Twilight Sparkle and Bart Simpson.

ITS that easy… unless the player you wanted was already chosen by someone else… you could trade a player for another player

For ex: Team Gevock trades Bart Simpson for Finn the Dog on Team Marh

YOU can decline trades and if you want to trade a player INBOX me the player(s) you want to trade to the player.

18-30 teams.

Games are on Saturday and I’ll post the scores.

54 games but if you think thats to much games, tell me and I’ll lower it down a little.

There will be playoffs after the season.

Lets try to get this thing started.

So which one do you guys want? Option 1 or Option 2?

 
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Topic: Forum Games / FHL (Fictional Hockey League) Coach and Team Signups

Originally posted by SypherKhode822:

meh.
Seems fun.
I call SPACE JAM!

Thats a basketball team, you want Michael Jordan as a HOCKEY player?

 
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Topic: Forum Games / FHL (Fictional Hockey League) Coach and Team Signups

Ok, since its the Stanley Cup Playoffs and all that, I want to do something a little fun. I’ll try to explain it and if you dont get some of it, comment or just inbox me.

-You can be the coach of your own team

-only 18-30 teams allowed

-Choose any fictional show/movie/cartoon to coach (comment down below what team you want)

-Im the general manager and I’ll do the scores

-Games will be on every Saturday

-There will be 54 games (comment if thats too much and I’ll lower it down

If you have more questions or comments feel free

 
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Topic: Off-topic / Describe Kongregate in a nutshell

Let’s see who can make the most hilarious breakdown of our site!

 
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Topic: Off-topic / Really Bad Games Thread

Post games you hate, or Games that people hate…
But let’s start.

Let’s try to add a lot. or You make one, Top Xs, Lists. Anything. Just nothing cringeworthy.

- Rouge Warrior

- The Simpsons Skateboarding

- Sonic the Hedgehog

 
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Topic: Off-topic / Im going to stop the creepypasta stories now... if anyone cares...

I dont know man… I dont feel like doing these things anymore… well… gonna make a new thread in like 5 minutes about something else… and im moving to Lavender Town where the music makes you commit suicide

 
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Topic: Off-topic / The Puppetmaster's Regime (Creepypasta Fridays #13)

Have you ever heard of the musical “The Puppetmaster’s Regime”? Most likely, you haven’t. In fact, even hardcore musical lovers often do not know the story of this little production. It was a 1934 stage musical written by anonymous authors of the music, lyrics, and book. It starred upcoming performers such as Timmy “cutie-pie” Wright, Sally Wilkes, Henry Gregory, as well as many others. At the time, it was the most expensive show to that date. It was said to be the biggest, most spectacular show you’d ever see.

From the testament of Tyler Warwick (1901-1983)
“I went to see the show about a week after I turned thirty-three. The ticket was a gift from my sister, who knew how much I loved musicals. I remember the signs, they were huge. I also remember the playbill… it was just a single red dot with a doll-like face on it. It didn’t make much sense to me but it didn’t matter, because I was going to see a Broadway show…”

From the testament of Georgina Long (1911-1984)
“…the cast was made completely of new people. Kids and adults alike who were longing to get back on stage after Vaudeville stopped being popular, it was quite charming really. I do remember how odd the whole thing was… all the playwrights and lyricists and everyone were all unnamed, and that playbill… it was a little red drop with a peculiar little face in it. Not even a title, just that little red dot. I had come to New York with my parents to cheer the family up after my grandmother had died… a Broadway musical seemed just like what we needed…”

From the testament of Carl Hannigan (1920-1993)
“…I remember the first act- then again, who could forget? The story was a little hard to follow at first. There was a little boy who lived in a puppet shop, or maybe he lived down the street- no, no, he worked in the puppet shop, but he was homeless, so they provided him a home there. The kid’s name was Mori..Mortim…something weird…oh yes, it was Morietum…no, Morietur. Morietur, yes. Anyways, Morietur’s employer was this old man named Mr. Obcisor. I remember his name because he was so creepy. I think his character was a pedophile. The two of them sang this weird song about puppets…it wasn’t a normal song…or at least, the music wasn’t normal. The lyrics were very enchanting, and the music did this odd thing where the high notes and the low notes sort of mixed with each other; it really set this strange mood. But we thought nothing of it, and the show progressed…”

From the testament of Gabriel Johnston (1919-1976)
“This little kid, Mori- Morietur, something like that, had a girl friend named Trahunt and this other boy friend named Adolebit. Together, they talked about how much they loved puppets, and so they sang this cute little song about joining forced to raise money so they could afford to build their own puppet. Then…something really odd happened in the story…

…the three all headed for school, and they had this really nasty teacher named Madame Reperio…or something like that. They had a reprise of the song from before and she overheard them…at first her remarks about the children’s fantasies were somewhat comical…but then the light fixed on her and she sang this heartbreaking little song about…well, that was up for interpretation. It was somewhat about love, but it had all these strange puppet metaphors. Then, she just went on this little breakdown, we thought it was this strange character trait. She started singing off key and went to beat one of the kids. The curtain fell, and there was a scuffle heard onstage. We sort of dismissed it, though. So soon the curtain rose again, and we were back at the puppet shop…"

From the testament of Louis Roberts (1905-1967)
“Morietur and his friends went into the town and sang a song about selling…dolls, I think it was. Because the little girl made dolls in her spare time, and she had to sell them. I remember those strange background characters. The company was so absolutely monotonous…they all wore some form of dark clothing, and each of them were very, very tall. I can remember how they all had their faces covered up by hair or hats or veils…none of them spoke. None of them even sang during the course of the show. They just walked in perfectly straight lines, as if they weren’t even part of the show. Anyways, this strange song about buying dolls…it had absolutely no life. But for some reason, these kids were putting their all into it. I could see the pain in their faces as they hit those high notes. And something else…as the lyrics went on…they seemed to…get…a little…it is so hard to explain. They all looked like they were…dying a little inside. They looked so pale and nervous all of a sudden…it made me just a tiny bit anxious…”

From the testament of Carrie Laurie (1921-1995)
“The kids all got their money from this strange man in cloak who sang a simple little tune…I still remember the lyrics:

Despite the fall of rain, little kiddies,
Everyone needs a little song-
Wooden dolls give you pain, little kiddies,
Go on, little kiddies, run along…
His character was never really explained. But I remember how truly gripping the melody was…so haunting, it got you right there in the gut. Even the little kid actors seemed a bit unsettled by the new turn of the show. They all kept stuttering over their lines as they spoke and sang, and I still remember when a light bulb over the stage went out. Everyone kind of gasped and one man I think even laughed. The noise it made really spooked the little girl, little miss whatshername. All the names were so very odd. All I know is that light bulb had gone out, an the actors were stumbling across the stage…and the whole thing looked like a terrible flop."

From the testament of Marcus Edger (1918-1968)
“…So After that light bulb went out, the whole set started falling apart. We, the audience, tried our best to ignore it. But we found it near impossible. The set piece for the puppet shop screeched its way onto the stage, and we could see in the far back the paper sky background falling down. The lights went dim in what we assumed was an attempt to hide the malfunctioning set pieces. The kids, with the help of an oddly monotonous Mr. Obcisor, constructed the puppet…and this strange song played. To this day I don’t know what they were saying. It sounded somewhat like Latin, but I went on to study Latin in college the next year, and found it to be in no way the language. I remember how it enchanted me, though. It enchanted all of us. We all began to feel this…thing…course through us. I remember a few people around us who were humming in an attempt to rid themselves of the sound, and I could hear people in the front rows crying out in what sounded like pain.

The actors themselves sounded as though they were about to pass out at any moment. They were doing this odd sort of ballet and they were tripping all over themselves, and I can remember a few more lights flashing and breaking. We all sat and waited for the song to end, when…when…I’m sorry. (pause) I’m so sorry…I can’t…"

From the testament of George Frank (1899-1999)
“…The lights were going on and off at random, and we were all praying the damn song would end soon. It had this force going with it…it was sucking us in. We could feel it. The little kids and the puppet man were dancing all around when…well, you see…(pause)…I really thought I could do it. I thought I could do it…but I can’t…”

From the testament of Carolyn Mark (1901-1949)
“…The lighting was completely out of control. It was a mess. And that song…it was awful. But something about it…it was powerful. It had a force. I watched intently as the dancers began to skip around and…and…we…I thought they were…the lights…”

The actual events of the final scene of Act I of “The Puppetmaster’s Regime” has been up for debate for many years. Not many people are willing to speak out about what happened on stage during those final moments. Many believe that there is no actual record of an interview with somebody who was willing the tell the story…this is not true, as one testament survives from a Billy Prescott, who was only six at the time of the show. At such a young age, one might assume he was unaffected by what he recalls happening:

“…I don’t remember a lot, because I was just a kid. All I can remember is that song…it was giving me a headache. I turned to father to ask him if we could leave, when suddenly I saw the stage illuminate with this red light. The music stopped as one instrument after another died out, and swear I heard pounding underneath the stage. Everyone was questioning what was happening…even the actors. I remember that teacher lady being pushed through the door of the shop…and some assembly members ran onstage for some reason, and just stopped. I remember a few people started crying right there on the stage when suddenly this…curtain…came forward.

It’s hard to describe what it looked like. It was a clear plastic wall, and it came down from above. Several years later I saw “Carrie: The Musical” on Broadway during one of its few runs…that thing that came down on the promgoers when Carrie was using laser lights to kill everyone? It was just like that. A bunch of set pieces from earlier scenes came down on the sides of the stage, trapping all of the actors in the center. Then chaos erupted.

The actors were pounding on the plastic wall thing when suddenly the curtain flew out and left us in the dark. The audience, at the time, thought it was just a really twisted ending to a terrible musical. We were about to get up when suddenly the curtain opened up again, revealing a single light, and in it was the little boy, Morietur. He had clawed his way through the plastic wall…we could see the blood on his hands…but I remember how he looked.

There were strings attached to every part of his body…like a puppet. Not only that, but we could all see his stomach…or lack of, anyway. It was like somebody had put a huge ice cream scooper in his belly. He was sobbing all over the stage, and everyone looked at him, not knowing what to do…and then he spoke…

“Help me…please…help me…” was all I could make out, and then he vomited and suddenly collapsed. The lights all came on, and we saw the cast.

They were all dead. Every one of them looked exactly like the little boy. Everyone had those strings attached…and we watched as all of them, even the little boy…as their strings were pulled on. Their lifeless bodies rose on cue, and they bowed."

However, we cannot be certain that this a credible account…but unfortunately, it’s all we have to work with. “The Puppetmaster’s Regime” sparked horrible debate among the theatre companies. Several audience members had to be treated to special therapy for years to come…and the show itself was covered up by the police. For years to come the theatre company, as well as the police department, who had never managed to solve the gruesome murders of the cast of the show, denied that the play ever existed. However, in recent years the story has resurfaced…sparking much new debate on the subject.

The theater that housed the show still refuses to acknowledge the show’s existence, and most theatre historians know nothing about the show in general. To this day, the identities of the anonymous lyric and music writers are unknown, and all copies of recordings of the songs and police reports have been destroyed. However, through ancient illegal copies of interviews and theatre records, we can gather a bit of information on the show. The show itself had its first workshop in London durring 1928. One of the songs, “Get A Puppet” was recorded with vocals by twelve-year-old Garris Creely. However, this recording has been lost, and is only available in the black market of the internet. Other than that, no official records (that we know of) were ever made. Some ancient accounts say that an illegal taping of the final scene of Act I was recorded from backstage, but we cannot be certain that this is anything but a rumor.

As for any official memerabilia, very little of anything was ever made for the show to be remembered by. Oddly enough, the show was never advertised, and yet it somehow was well-known enough to have booked tickets for several months to come. Playbills from its premiere night were given out. Most audience members destroyed their copies after seeing the show…but legend has it, around ten to twelve survive.

On another note, over the years the show has grown a small cult fan base, and here recently, an off-Broadway revival has been scheduled to premiere soon.

~

This has an eerie feeling to it, and is chilling to the bone. 9/10

 
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Topic: Off-topic / World's Best School Psychologist (Creepypasta Fridays #12) (Awarded for the Best Single-Part Story of 2013)

When I was twelve, I came to the conclusion that everyone in the world, including my own family, was against me. I was never a problemed child, but my parents sure treated me like one.
For example, I used to need to be home by 5:00pm every day. This clearly restricted my amount of “play time” outdoors. I wasn’t allowed to have friends over to play at the house, nor was I allowed to go over anyone else’s. I had to finish homework directly after I came home from school, no matter how long it took. My parents refused to buy me video games and forced me to read books and then write a book report on them to prove I actually read it!
Now, even though those rules listed above were quite frustrating to me as a child, they aren’t what upset me most. What really hurt me was the lack of compassion on behalf of my parents. My mother was a bitter woman who always made me feel guilty of accidents or mistakes I’ve made. My father only knew one emotion: frustration. The only time he spoke to me was when he screamed at me for receiving poor test scores or beat me for misbehaving.
But enough about them, let’s talk about my school’s psychologist. For his own privacy, we will call him Dr. Tanner. Like most junior high schools, a psychologist is always available on campus during school hours to assist any students in need of counseling whether it is emotional, academic, social, behavioral, etc.
To be honest, I have never seen any students talking with Dr. Tanner. Every day, I would walk past his office on my way the cafeteria and peek through his door’s little window. He would always be alone in there, working on some paperwork.
I guessed that most kids were too afraid to speak about their problems to an adult who was practically a stranger. For this reason, it took me three weeks to muster enough courage to go into his office. March 2nd, 1993, was the day I decided to voice my troubles to Dr. Tanner. During lunch break, I stood in front of his office door and knocked.
Through the window, I could see him raise his head, smile, and motion for me to come in. I did.
He greeted me by introducing himself and asking for my name. Dr. Tanner was a very soft spoken man who seemed to radiate kindness. In less than thirty minutes, I rambled to Dr. Tanner about how mean my parents were to me and how they didn’t care about me at all. After a while, my voice began to quaver and I stopped speaking. The psychologist listened patiently to my whole spiel, arms folded and head nodding. I half expected him to begin talking about how everything I had just said was untrue and that my parents loved me dearly and blah blah blah. But he didn’t.
Dr. Tanner leaned towards me with a grin on his face and said “You know… I’m the best school psychologist in the world. I promise we will fix this.”
I rolled my eyes. “Okay, but how?” I asked.
“I have my ways!” he replied. “I’m a man of my word. I promise that within just one month, the relationship between you and your parents will change for the better. Forever.”
After a brief pause, he continued; “Although, I do need you to make me a promise.”
“You have to promise me that you’ll come back to my office after school tomorrow and that you won’t tell anyone that we had this conversation today. It’ll be our little secret.”
I promised.
The following day, I returned to Dr. Tanner after school. It was around 4:00pm when I entered his office. After a warm welcome, he asked me to have a seat in front of his desk once again.
Upon sitting down, I watched Dr. Tanner close the blinds of the door’s tiny window. “There,” he smiled, “now we have all the privacy we need!”
We began to talk about my likes and interests, my favorite subjects in school, my least favorite teachers, and things of the like. About an hour into the conversation, Dr. Tanner offered me a soft drink.
I gladly took the offer, considering my parents never allowed me to drink soda. Dr. Tanner reached over to his mini-fridge and fidgeted around before setting down two open cans of soda on the desk.
Afterwards, we continued to talk about what was going on in my life but it wasn’t long before I passed out from whatever drugs Dr. Tanner placed in my drink.
It took me a minute or so to adjust my blurred vision upon waking…
… And when it did, I had no idea what to think.
I was handcuffed to a bed and my mouth was sealed with duct tape. I immediately began to panic- squirming and tugging at the cuffs- but gave up soon after.
My eyes widened in disbelief after looking around the room. There were posters of superheroes pinned up along the walls and photographs of famous athletes on shelves. In the middle of the room was an old television and Super Nintendo, various game cartridges stacked alongside it.
I didn’t know what to think. Here I am in a room filled with items most kids would die to play with. I would have probably cried from joy hadn’t I been handcuffed to a bed frame.
My stomach sank once again as the door opened and Dr. Tanner walked inside. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Now listen,” he said, “remember that I’m here to help you and I would never hurt you, okay?” Dr. Tanner gently removed the tape from my mouth and then the cuffs from my hands.
My first instinct was to begin crying but something about Dr. Tanner made me feel safe. He smiled at me. “You’re going to be staying here for a while,” he continued, “and during this time, you’re allowed to play with any toys in this room while I’m here at home.”
“But when I leave the house, I’ll need to cuff one of your hands back to the bed. You can still watch the television, but I want you to only watch the news channels when I’m away.”
I sat in silence, still trying to process the information he had given me.
“So!” Dr. Tanner yipped, slapping me on the knee. “You go ahead and knock yourself out; I’ll be back when it’s time for dinner.”
He got up from the bed, walked across the room and clicked the TV’s power button before locking the door behind him.
Several more minutes passed before I realized that Dr. Tanner wasn’t joking. All that was left for me to do was boot up the Nintendo and play Mario until nightfall.
At about 7:00pm, Dr. Tanner returned to the room carrying two plates of mashed potatoes and chicken strips. I finally gathered up the courage to ask him how long I’d be staying in this room. “Well, about a month,” he replied, “give or take a few weeks. I just have some work I need to do.”
The following morning, I awoke to Dr. Tanner’s hand patting my head. “Hey bud, you don’t have to wake up right now if you don’t want, but I am going to need to put this back on,” he whispered, clamping the cold steel handcuff onto my wrist.
I gazed up at him. He was wearing a collared shirt and slacks, a coat draped over his shoulder and a suitcase at his side. He looked just how he always did when I saw him around school. Before leaving he placed the TV’s remote next to me and told me to turn it on and watch the news.
The first thing I saw upon turning it on was a “breaking news” segment. An important looking police officer stood at a podium surrounded by people with microphones. I happened to begin viewing half way through his speech.
“A statewide Amber Alert has been issued as of this morning. We have several investigators working towards identifying potential abductors, but as of right now there is not much evidence. Faculty members state that the boy had been last seen around four or five in the evening on-“
I began to feel nauseous as a photograph of me appeared on the screen. It was my yearbook picture from last year. Captions for the photograph displayed my name and age, my school, and my town. Above my picture were alternating titles: FBI BEGINS SEARCH FOR CHILD and KIDNAPPING SUSPECT UNKNOWN and POTENTIAL RUNAWAY.
The live footage continued and two figures I soon recognized as my mom and dad stepped up to the podium. Both appeared to have reddened eyes. Tears streamed down my mother’s face as she took hold of a microphone.
I’d never seen so much emotion come from my mother before as she wept on live television, stuttering on sentences such as “please return my baby back to me” and “I’m so sorry” and “please come home to us”.
When my father took the microphone, I nearly expected his attitude to be stone cold, but he too had tears in his eyes. He pleaded to the world to bring his son home safely and lastly begged for my forgiveness! “I know I haven’t been the best father, but goddamn it do I wish I had been now. Please bring my boy back.”
I turned the power off shortly after. My emotions were mixed for I had never once seen my father cry.
I felt miserable that my parents were being put through so much, but at the same time I felt relief. I now know how much mom and dad love me.
Nearly four weeks have passed and Dr. Tanner has been treating me with the utmost respect. He leaves me in the morning cuffed to the bed frame, but returns in the afternoon to eat lunch and dinner with me, talk, and play games. I never would have guessed how good Dr. Tanner was at Monopoly and Scrabble.
But one morning when Dr. Tanner woke me before heading off to work, I noticed a stern look on his face. I also realized that it was three hours earlier than when he usually wakes me.
“You need to watch the news today. No exceptions. I want you to keep the television on all day and pay close attention to it,” he stated grimly.
I, of course, complied and watched him exit the room.
About two hours later, a breaking news segment interrupted the toothpaste commercial I was watching. The title:
HUMAN REMNANTS FOUND
Two staunch looking men in suits stood aside one another and began speaking:
“We are displeased to bring up such unfortunate news this morning regarding our missing child case from earlier this month.”
One of the men bowed his head while the one speaking shuffled through some papers. He continued:
“Remains of a body have been found in a garbage bag beneath a highway overpass. The body appears to be that of a child, although not much of it is left. The body has been decapitated and much has been burnt to ash and bone.”
The screen shifted over to a helicopter view of the freeway, dozens of police cars gathered near the bottom of a tall overpass. The man’s voice could still be heard:
“Within the bag police found a junior high school identification card labeled as such.”
The screen showed the school ID card I always kept in my backpack. The plastic was sort of melted away, but my photograph and name were intact.
After the two men dismissed themselves, the camera panned over to my parents. They were sitting among reporters; my mother’s face held a painful grimace and my father sulked his head down at his knees.
I shut the television off.
Dr. Tanner returned home very late. He hurried into the room, unlocked my cuffs, and placed a bottle of fizzing water into my hand.
He placed his hands onto my shoulders and smiled.
“I made you a promise, didn’t I?”
I nodded, tears squeezing their way out my eyes.
“You need to make me a promise again,” he whispered.
He told me that I needed to drink all the water in the bottle- it would help me sleep- and that from here on, I am never to tell anyone that I ever met him. I promised.
“I told you I’m the best school psychologist in the world, didn’t I?”
And he was right.
I awoke later that night to find myself lying in the middle of a park, stars shining brilliantly across the night sky. I recognized the park; it wasn’t too far from my school.
A mile or so down the road, I saw my house. The lights were off inside, but I could make out my father sitting on the step leading to the front door.
I hesitantly called out to him. He lifted his head slowly, but when he saw it was me, he sprang to his feet, ran towards me arms open, yelling my name. My mother erupted from the house behind him.
Dr. Tanner was right. Things have changed with my family and I. My parents smile more often and treat me lovingly. I could not ask for a more perfect ending.
Every now and then, I see Dr. Tanner on campus- talking to and from his office. Rarely do we ever make eye contact, let alone speak to one another, but sometimes he’ll shoot me a wink and a smile.
I’ll always keep my promise to him and pretend I never met him, but there will always be one question forever floating in my mind: who did Dr. Tanner decapitate and throw off the overpass?

~

This is literally the ONLY story that I’ve had an emotional reaction to. Holy shit, what an awesome story.

 
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Topic: Off-topic / XoRax (Creepypasta Fridays #11)

My parents were the first to fall violently ill from the sickness we now know as XoRax. I can vividly recall my father lying on his bed while his muscles spasmed and he chocked on his own vomit. I stood as his side, frozen in place and refusing to leave as I held back sobs, his pupils dilating until his entire eye was like an inky blackness. He tried to speak, turning his head toward me, but opening his mouth only brought forth another torrent of vomit. I remember saying something, but that detail is lost on me now. I remember staring into his glazed eyes as his shuddering became less pronounced and he was suddenly very still. I let out a wail and ran into my room, unprepared and unwilling to face the truth. My mother was the first to pass, then my older brother who had just turned 17, and finally my father. I had not considered that I could have caught the disease myself – if it were in fact contagious – I just thought myself lucky, though tragically lucky at that.

Xorax
Kodee2Added by Kodee2
I fell asleep in the corner, huddled in the blanket that previously kept my mother warm, her perfume made the putrid aroma somewhat tolerable, perhaps just enough so that I could drift off. I remember a persistent banging next, a series of muffled inquiries from the opposite side of my locked door. They were shouting for survivors, looking fervently for anyone who was still alive, despite the breakout. I rushed to the door and unlocked it to face what I would come to identify as the Day-Crew. Their faces were obscured by large gas masks fitted with some sort of capsule on either side of their cheeks, their breathing was slow and monitored, their voices were nearly impossible to hear over their mechanical wheezing. They were covered from head to toe in black regulation hazmat material with orange text reading DAY-CREW on their backs.

They ordered me out into the main hall where I managed to catch sight of fourteen other children around my age being told directions and filed into a line-up. Once the entire group had been examined, we began our trek out into the streets, which was a vision of chaos and destruction. We had heard the noises of looting and desperation from our homes, but we hadn’t ventured off into the outside world for weeks for fear of catching the sickness ourselves.

There were even more Day-Crew that were burning the bodies that had fallen to the streets , trying to purge the earth as they kept their distance from the resulting fumes. We were silently ushered into the back of a large truck that took us to the south, away from the cities and suburbs and into the dense growth of the forest.

When the van came to a screeching halt, the doors swung open to reveal more Day-Crew, who ushered us out into a forest clearing. We were interrogated about our exposure to anyone with XoRax, and if we felt any symptoms like nausea or vertigo; though we had all witnessed our family members falling ill, and had tried in vain to treat them, we were all perfectly fine in any physical sense.

The Day-Crew initially told us that they were perplexed about our immunity to the sickness, as anyone who came in contact with it was sure to fall ill just hours later, so it was a shock to see that some of us had been living this nightmare for weeks on end. As they administered more tests and asked more questions however, we were told that the immunity was tied with a hormone cell that the disease was using to compromise the immune system, and since we were all too young to have properly developed it, the disease was unable to make us fall ill.

We were told that the Day-Crew wanted to study us, that we would live under the cover of the forest in quarantine. They would hope to extract a cure from our group that could be used to heal the world and rid it of XoRax Disease.

They tried their best to sound positive in light of the situation, but it was obvious that even they were doubtful of their efforts, and that there was no guarantee for any of their tests to follow through.

Still, they kept the mood optimistic and promised us that we would save countless lives with our efforts. They built a secluded village in the woods, providing us each with a make-shift house carved into the tree trunks around the area, I was led to a simple tree house that had a single bed on the far end and a table in the middle. We were told that first thing the next morning we were going to have our blood taken, so we weren’t allowed to eat anything until then. I was fine with that, I hadn’t been hungry for days, the image of my mother, father and brother crowded my thoughts instead. I didn’t get much sleep, the forest was chirping with crickets, and the muffled bickering of the Night-Crew kept me up into the early hours.

We were woken the next day and filed into a single line up to have blood drawn. While the needles were prepared for us, we were told that we would have to receive a vaccination that would prevent us from going through puberty to preserve the hormone that might lead to a cure. It was never elaborated on at the time that we would never be able to grow up, or have children, but it was unlikely to live beyond the first few hours of infection, never mind the next few years, so our adulthood was seen as necessary sacrifice.

This continued for a few weeks, we would continue to receive vaccinations and assured that a cure would soon arise, but times were getting desperate. I took to listening in on the muffled conversations of the Night-Crew during the night, it became easier to make out what they were saying over time as they sat beneath my bedroom window next to a crackling fire.

I discovered that our encampment was only one of many in the surrounding area, and that they deduced that XoRax originally came from the sea to the West. They passed around horror stories of the people that lived by the shore that were hit the worst, that they had gone completely pale and that they began to sprout growths off of their elbows, hips and their toes. They had to be kept constantly hydrated or else their skin would begin to flake and peel. Their pupils had dilated and their entire eye was colored black, at this bit I thought back to my father, sitting on the couch and writhing in pain.

There was food in the mountains, one assured another, they were gathering it in droves, perhaps to keep it from spoiling. Another spoke up, revealing that they had managed to find expecting women who weren’t exposed to XoRaX, and that they were being kept in the mountains to birth their young away from the sickness. The topic came back to their present situation and they began to discuss our encampment, that our results – while promising – weren’t being worked on fast enough. There were accusations claimed, and fingers pointed, but at last they settled on keeping their mood positive, that something would come along eventually, that we just needed some more time.

Discussion drifted back to the horror stories of the West coast, which clearly sparked sick interest in the group as they talked of the corpses that had been found along the waters and drifted ashore, each with deep black eyes.

I rolled over in my bed, unable to listen to any more of the stories without images of my own family. Staring up towards the ceiling, praying that we would manage to find a cure soon, and that I wouldn’t have to hear about the people of the West any more.

It had been nearly a month of testing when something went wrong – a few short hours after our latest vaccination several kids began complaining of distorted vision. They could see trailing lights in the air, making their way across the plains. While their faces were covered with their masks, I could sense the worry that played out across their faces.

We were told that they were just visual hallucinations, and that they would subside in a few hours. When I awoke the next day and glimpsed outside I too could see the trailing lights drifting through the air, they forbid anyone to discuss the lights any further, though it was clear that everyone could see them.

As we lined up to have blood drawn, one of the Day-Crew became terribly ill, and began to vomit through his gas mask. In a frenzied panic we were ordered back into our homes as they led the sick member away into the woods. We were told to come out and organize ourselves into a line for decontamination. After covering everyone with a chalk-like substance, they began to scrub away at it with some foul smelling liquid until they were assured that we were safe to deal with once more. This excessive procedure became a part of our daily regimen, and it’s how we started calling them “The Scrubs” rather than their official titles. We were disillusioned, and it was obvious that they were as well.

The visual hallucinations began to worsen, even though we had stopped taking vaccinations long ago. Some kids began to befriend imaginary creatures in the air, speaking to the trails of light. I was horrified that I might start losing my sanity as well.

I didn’t want to eavesdrop to the discussion over the fire that night, which had gradually worsened which each passing week. With a trailing desperation in their voice, the Night-Crew began to exchange information about the other areas.

The food in the mountain had been contaminated, and rumors began to surface that all of the births had resulted in defects, with each child being well-over a healthy birth weight with their eyes far apart. They would likely succumb to the disease and perish as well, it was decided. The cure that had been tested on the XoRax-ridden patients hadn’t shown any signs of preventing the sickness, but rather had simply slowed the progress of the sickness so that it claimed lives in days rather than hours.

While this was a bit of good news, they focused on how little was accomplished over such a large span of time, and how anyone with the sickness shouldn’t be kept stringing along, but rather, destroyed so that they couldn’t contaminate anyone else. There was a coldness in their voice.

I rolled over in my bed to watch the lights play across my vision, dancing across my eyes until I fell asleep.

The Scrubs were gone the next day, leaving us behind as their failed experiment. The other children seemed unaware of this and decided to continue befriending imaginary creatures. In a depression I sulked off to bed, only to suffer a violent burst of spasms and shivering in the process. I drifted in and out of sleep that night, having one recurring nightmare after another. When I awoke, I heard something pass through my doorway, something that couldn’t possibly be there. Rolling over I reluctantly looked up into the air to watch a trailing ball of light float around my house before descending toward my bed.

“Hello, Link. Wake up. The Great Deku Tree has summoned you!”

~

Best gaming pasta of all time (exception to BEN, of course). 9.9/10

Your thoughts?

 
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Topic: Serious Discussion / Airplanes just dont disappear, they have to go somewhere... right?

2 weeks ago on Match 8th, Malaysian Airlines flight 370, an international passenger flight disappeared somewhere over the globe on route to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia to Beijing, China.

The Boeing 777 airplane last made contact one hour after take off. There were 239 souls on board all of whom are missing and presumed dead at this point.

But there are wild theories out there that include the plane landing somewhere in the near 601 ways accessible before it completely ran out of fuel and dropped out of the satellite picture.

This is a bizarre story that has kept the entire globe on edge trying to figure out what happened to it. There over 25 countries searching the Indian and Asian Oceans looking for this airline.

How does it just fall of the face of the planet? This isnt the plot to the movie Millennium where everyone got abducted and sent to the future. No, when I first heard this story I thought ‘missing plane? its not missing, it crashed’. Planes either crash or they land, there is really no other way about it. It doesnt just stay up in the sky forever, BUT a week after this incident happened the Malaysian prime minister did state that it made a left hand turn and movements that were consistent with the deliberate action of someone on the plane.

A lot of news reports jumped to terrorism, hijacking, if it made a deliberate turn off course and off schedule, well obviously it was a deliberate act of terrorism.

Hey and thats great at least we’ve slightly narrowed down the search radius to the entire Indian Ocean.

Earlier this week however Chris Goodfellow, a Canadian pilot with 20 years of experience himself posted on his Google+ profile a very interesting and convincing theory as what happened to Flight 370 and where it might be now. He thinks that the airplane had a serious fire on board. Shortly after take off, one of the landing gear might have caught on fire, engulfed a whole lot of smoke in the cab of the plane, made everybody unconscious but not before the pilot re adjust the planes heading and head for the closest airport which was in a nearby area off Malaysia, Pulau Langkawi. Unfortunately they never made it to that landing strip or any other airport around there, and then it just kept going its autopilot heading until it ran out of fuel and if you followed the course where it was heading on and estimated, that places the planes wreckage somewhere off the east coast of the Nazareth Bank smack dead in the middle of the Indian Ocean in about 4000 feet of water.

But I also have to wonder, did it really take some random guy on the internet posted on Google+ to really give everyone this theory. When you think about it, its the most simple and likely explanation is sometimes a true one and in this case I find it hard to believe that no one else came up with this theory which seems so believable and so plausible it almost has to be it. I cant think of anything else that would explain this tragedy.

We will have to wait and see in probably a very long time before we even truly know what happened, And even when they do find the plane and its black box, the thing only records the last two hours of voice in the cockpit anyways so we may never know what really went on in that cockpit because the people inside would have been long passed out before the thing crashed.

What your guys thoughts?

 
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Topic: Off-topic / Airplanes just dont disappear, they have to go somewhere... right?

2 weeks ago on Match 8th, Malaysian Airlines flight 370, an international passenger flight disappeared somewhere over the globe on route to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia to Beijing, China.

The Boeing 777 airplane last made contact one hour after take off. There were 239 souls on board all of whom are missing and presumed dead at this point.

But there are wild theories out there that include the plane landing somewhere in the near 601 ways accessible before it completely ran out of fuel and dropped out of the satellite picture.

This is a bizarre story that has kept the entire globe on edge trying to figure out what happened to it. There over 25 countries searching the Indian and Asian Oceans looking for this airline.

How does it just fall of the face of the planet? This isnt the plot to the movie Millennium where everyone got abducted and sent to the future. No, when I first heard this story I thought ‘missing plane? its not missing, it crashed’. Planes either crash or they land, there is really no other way about it. It doesnt just stay up in the sky forever, BUT a week after this incident happened the Malaysian prime minister did state that it made a left hand turn and movements that were consistent with the deliberate action of someone on the plane.

A lot of news reports jumped to terrorism, hijacking, if it made a deliberate turn off course and off schedule, well obviously it was a deliberate act of terrorism.

Hey and thats great at least we’ve slightly narrowed down the search radius to the entire Indian Ocean.

Earlier this week however Chris Goodfellow, a Canadian pilot with 20 years of experience himself posted on his Google+ profile a very interesting and convincing theory as what happened to Flight 370 and where it might be now. He thinks that the airplane had a serious fire on board. Shortly after take off, one of the landing gear might have caught on fire, engulfed a whole lot of smoke in the cab of the plane, made everybody unconscious but not before the pilot re adjust the planes heading and head for the closest airport which was in a nearby area off Malaysia, Pulau Langkawi. Unfortunately they never made it to that landing strip or any other airport around there, and then it just kept going its autopilot heading until it ran out of fuel and if you followed the course where it was heading on and estimated, that places the planes wreckage somewhere off the east coast of the Nazareth Bank smack dead in the middle of the Indian Ocean in about 4000 feet of water.

But I also have to wonder, did it really take some random guy on the internet posted on Google+ to really give everyone this theory. When you think about it, its the most simple and likely explanation is sometimes a true one and in this case I find it hard to believe that no one else came up with this theory which seems so believable and so plausible it almost has to be it. I cant think of anything else that would explain this tragedy.

We will have to wait and see in probably a very long time before we even truly know what happened, And even when they do find the plane and its black box, the thing only records the last two hours of voice in the cockpit anyways so we may never know what really went on in that cockpit because the people inside would have been long passed out before the thing crashed.

What your guys thoughts?

 
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Topic: Off-topic / Candle Cove (Creepypasta Fridays #10)

NetNostalgia Forum – Television (local)

Skyshale033
Subject: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
Does anyone remember this kid’s show? It was called Candle Cove and I must have been 6 or 7. I never found reference to it anywhere so I think it was on a local station around 1971 or 1972. I lived in Ironton at the time. I don’t remember which station, but I do remember it was on at a weird time, like 4:00 PM.

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
it seems really familiar to me…..i grew up outside of ashland and was 9 yrs old in 72. candle cove…was it about pirates? i remember a pirate marionete at the mouth of a cave talking to a little girl

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
YES! Okay I’m not crazy! I remember Pirate Percy. I was always kind of scared of him. He looked like he was built from parts of other dolls, real low-budget. His head was an old porcelain baby doll, looked like an antique that didn’t belong on the body. I don’t remember what station this was! I don’t think it was WTSF though.

Jaren_2005
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
Sorry to ressurect this old thread but I know exactly what show you mean, Skyshale. I think Candle Cove ran for only a couple months in ‘71, not ‘72. I was 12 and I watched it a few times with my brother. It was channel 58, whatever station that was. My mom would let me switch to it after the news. Let me see what I remember.

It took place in Candle cove, and it was about a little girl who imagined herself to be friends with pirates. The pirate ship was called the Laughingstock, and Pirate Percy wasn’t a very good pirate because he got scared too easily. And there was calliope music constantly playing. Don’t remember the girl’s name. Janice or Jade or something. Think it was Janice.

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
Thank you Jaren!!! Memories flooded back when you mentioned the Laughingstock and channel 58. I remember the bow of the ship was a wooden smiling face, with the lower jaw submerged. It looked like it was swallowing the sea and it had that awful Ed Wynn voice and laugh. I especially remember how jarring it was when they switched from the wooden/plastic model, to the foam puppet version of the head that talked.

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
ha ha i remember now too. ;) do you remember this part skyshale: “you have…to go…INSIDE.”

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
Ugh mike, I got a chill reading that. Yes I remember. That’s what the ship always told Percy when there was a spooky place he had to go in, like a cave or a dark room where the treasure was. And the camera would push in on Laughingstock’s face with each pause. YOU HAVE… TO GO… INSIDE. With his two eyes askew and that flopping foam jaw and the fishing line that opened and closed it. Ugh. It just looked so cheap and awful.

You guys remember the villain? He had a face that was just a handlebar mustache above really tall, narrow teeth.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
i honestly, honestly thought the villain was pirate percy. i was about 5 when this show was on. nightmare fuel.

Jaren_2005
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
That wasn’t the villain, the puppet with the mustache. That was the villain’s sidekick, Horace Horrible. He had a monocle too, but it was on top of the mustache. I used to think that meant he had only one eye.

But yeah, the villain was another marionette. The Skin-Taker. I can’t believe what they let us watch back then.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
jesus h. christ, the skin taker. what kind of a kids show were we watching? i seriously could not look at the screen when the skin taker showed up. he just descended out of nowhere on his strings, just a dirty skeleton wearing that brown top hat and cape. and his glass eyes that were too big for his skull. christ almighty.

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
Wasn’t his top hat and cloak all sewn up crazily? Was that supposed to be children’s skin??

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
yeah i think so. rememer his mouth didn’t open and close, his jaw just slid back and foth. i remember the little girl said “why does your mouth move like that” and the skin-taker didn’t look at the girl but at the camera and said “TO GRIND YOUR SKIN”

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
I’m so relieved that other people remember this terrible show!

I used to have this awful memory, a bad dream I had where the opening jingle ended, the show faded in from black, and all the characters were there, but the camera was just cutting to each of their faces, and they were just screaming, and the puppets and marionettes were flailing spastically, and just all screaming, screaming. The girl was just moaning and crying like she had been through hours of this. I woke up many times from that nightmare. I used to wet the bed when I had it.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
i don’t think that was a dream. i remember that. i remember that was an episode.

Skyshale033
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
No no no, not possible. There was no plot or anything, I mean literally just standing in place crying and screaming for the whole show.

kevin_hart
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
maybe i’m manufacturing the memory because you said that, but i swear to god i remember seeing what you described. they just screamed.

Jaren_2005
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
Oh God. Yes. The little girl, Janice, I remember seeing her shake. And the Skin-Taker screaming through his gnashing teeth, his jaw careening so wildly I thought it would come off its wire hinges. I turned it off and it was the last time I watched. I ran to tell my brother and we didn’t have the courage to turn it back on.

mike_painter65
Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid’s show?
i visited my mom today at the nursing home. i asked her about when i was littel in the early 70s, when i was 8 or 9 and if she remebered a kid’s show, candle cove. she said she was suprised i could remember that and i asked why, and she said “because i used to think it was so strange that you said ‘i’m gona go watch candle cove now mom’ and then you would tune the tv to static and juts watch dead air for 30 minutes. you had a big imagination with your little pirate show.”

~

I like it how its like from a forum 8/10

What did you think?

 
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Topic: Off-topic / Little Pink Backpack (Creepypasta Fridays #9)

If you find a little pink backpack, you shouldn’t open it.












This is for the ones who asked for someone to transcribe the pages. Some may be hard to read So I will try my best to transcribe them for your viewing pleasure

Page 1
This is Lisa,(.) she is my friend. My mom and dad don’t see her, so they say she is my imaginary friend. Lisa is a nice friend(.)

Page 2
Today I tried to plant a flower in the yard. I tried to plant it by the Sandbox, but Lisa said that is where her daddy is sleeping, so I planted it in a cup of dirt.

Page 3
Lisa is at school with me today. I brot (Brought) her for show and tell, but Mrs. Monroe got mad, because she can’t see her. Lisa got sad, so she hid the Chalkboard eraser.

Page 4
Yesterday was my birthday party. Mommy bought pizza, but no one came. Lisa said people came to the porch and left. But they left presents. I got 3 barbies, a pair of shoes, and Five dollars. Me and Lisa played (with the) barbies.

Page 5
Mrs. Monroe is Absent today, (and) our substitute is named Mrs. Digman(.) She is pretty, and nice, and she is letting us have snack time after diary time(.) I wish Mrs. Digman can stay our teacher.

Page 6
*Today Jonnathin Parker stole my Pencil pack. Mrs. Digman can’t find it, so she made him give me his pencils. Lisa came to school too, but Mrs. Digman can’t see her. She said she beleives (Believes) Lisa is real.

Page 7
Yesterday, me and Lisa went on a long walk, until the moon came out. Daddy got mad and said Lisa is stupid and fake and she disapeered (Disappeared). Today Lisa didn’t come to school, but Mrs. Digman says that Mrs. Monroe won’t come back.

Page 8
Daddy was at work all day, yesterday. He didn’t come home to eat dinner,(.) Today he is still at work. Mom packed me a pudding for lunch today. Pudding is my favorite(.)

Page 9
I miss lisa, daddy is real busy at work, he didn’t come home at the weekend. Mom is mad at him. I want to write a letter for Lisa(.)

Page 10
Dear lisa. I miss you. Please come back. I’m sorry when my daddy was mean. You are my best friend.

Page 11
Lisa came back yesterday. She said sorry for leaving, and I told her my dad won’t come home from work. Lisa said him and Mrs. Monroe are both sleeping like her dad. I hope they wake up soon.

~
Possibly one of my all-time favourite Creepypastas

11/10

What did you think?

 
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Topic: Off-topic / NoEnd House (Creepypasta Fridays #8)

Let me start by saying that Peter Terry was addicted to heroin.

We were friends in college and continued to be after I graduated. Notice that I said "I". He dropped out after two years of barely cutting it. After I moved out of the dorms and into a small apartment, I didn't see Peter as much. We would talk online every now and then (AIM was king in pre-Facebook years). There was a period where he wasn't online for about five weeks straight. I wasn't worried. He was a pretty notorious flake and drug addict, so I assumed he just stopped caring. Then one night I saw him log on. Before I could initiate a conversation, he sent me a message.

"David, man, we need to talk."

That was when he told me about the NoEnd House. It got that name because no one had ever reached the final exit. The rules were pretty simple and cliche: reach the final room of the building and you win $500. There were nine rooms in all. The house was located outside the city, roughly four miles from my house. Apparently Peter had tried and failed. He was a heroin and who-knows-what-the-fuck addict, so I figured the drugs got the best of him and he wigged out at a paper ghost or something. He told me it would be too much for anyone. That it was unnatural.

I didn't believe him. I told him I would check it out the next night and no matter how hard he tried to convince me otherwise, $500 sounded too good to be true. I had to go. I set out the following night.

When I arrived, I immediately noticed something strange about the building. Have you ever seen or read something that shouldn't be scary, but for some reason a chill crawls up your spine? I walked toward the building and the feeling of uneasiness only intensified as I opened the front door.

My heart slowed and I let a relieved sigh leave me as I entered. The room looked like a normal hotel lobby decorated for Halloween. A sign was posted in place of a worker. It read, "Room 1 this way. Eight more follow. Reach the end and you win!" I chuckled and made my way to the first door.

The first area was almost laughable. The decor resembled the Halloween aisle of a K-Mart, complete with sheet ghosts and animatronic zombies that gave a static growl when you passed by. At the far end was an exit; it was the only door besides the one I entered through. I brushed through the fake spider webs and headed for the second room.

I was greeted by fog as I opened the door to room two. The room definitely upped the ante in terms of technology. Not only was there a fog machine, but a bat hung from the ceiling and flew in a circle. Scary. They seemed to have a Halloween soundtrack that one would find in a 99 cent store on loop somewhere in the room. I didn't see a stereo, but I guessed they must have used a PA system. I stepped over a few toy rats that wheeled around and walked with a puffed chest across to the next area.

I reached for the doorknob and my heart sank to my knees. I did not want to open that door. A feeling of dread hit me so hard I could barely even think. Logic overtook me after a few terrified moments, and I shook it off and entered the next room.

Room three is when things began to change.

On the surface, it looked like a normal room. There was a chair in the middle of the wood paneled floor. A single lamp in the corner did a poor job of lighting the area, casting a few shadows across the floor and walls. That was the problem. Shadows. Plural.

With the exception of the chair's, there were others. I had barely walked in the door and I was already terrified. It was at that moment that I knew something wasn't right. I didn't even think as I automatically tried to open the door I came through. It was locked from the other side.

That set me off. Was someone locking the doors as I progressed? There was no way. I would have heard them. Was it a mechanical lock that set automatically? Maybe. But I was too scared to really think. I turned back to the room and the shadows were gone. The chair's shadow remained, but the others were gone. I slowly began to walk. I used to hallucinate when I was a kid, so I wrote off the shadows as a figment of my imagination. I began to feel better as I made it to the halfway point of the room. I looked down as I took my steps and that's when I saw it.

Or didn't see it. My shadow wasn't there. I didn't have time to scream. I ran as fast as I could to the other door and flung myself without thinking into the room beyond.

The fourth room was possibly the most disturbing. As I closed the door, all light seemed to be sucked out and put back into the previous room. I stood there, surrounded by darkness, not able to move. I'm not afraid of the dark and never have been, but I was absolutely terrified. All sight had left me. I held my hand in front of my face and if I didn't know what I was doing, I would never have been able to tell. Darkness doesn't describe it. I couldn't hear anything. It was dead silence. When you're in a sound-proof room, you can still hear yourself breathing. You can hear yourself being alive.

I couldn't.

I began to stumble forward after a few moments, my rapidly beating heart the only thing I could feel. There was no door in sight. Wasn't even sure there was one this time. The silence was then broken by a low hum.

I felt something behind me. I spun around wildly but could barely even see my nose. I knew it was there, though. Regardless of how dark it was, I knew something was there. The hum grew louder, closer. It seemed to surround me, but I knew whatever was causing the noise was in front of me, inching closer. I took a step back; I had never felt that kind of fear. I can't really describe true fear. I wasn't even scared I was going to die; I was scared of what the alternative was. I was afraid of what this thing had in store for me. Then the lights flashed for a second and I saw it.

Nothing. I saw nothing and I know I saw nothing there. The room was again plunged into darkness and the hum became a wild screech. I screamed in protest; I couldn't hear this goddamn sound for another minute. I ran backwards, away from the noise, and fumbled for the door handle. I turned and fell into room five.

Before I describe room five, you have to understand something. I am not a drug addict. I have had no history of drug abuse or any sort of psychosis short of the childhood hallucinations I mentioned earlier, and those were only when I was really tired or just waking up. I entered the NoEnd House with a clear head.

After falling in from the previous room, my view of room five was from my back, looking up at the ceiling. What I saw didn't scare me; it simply surprised me. Trees had grown into the room and towered above my head. The ceilings in this room were taller than the others, which made me think I was in the center of the house. I got up off the floor, dusted myself off, and took a look around. It was definitely the biggest room of them all. I couldn't even see the door from where I was; various brush and trees must have blocked my line of sight with the exit.

Up to this point, I figured the rooms were going to get scarier, but this was a paradise compared to the last room. I also assumed whatever was in room four stayed back there. I was incredibly wrong.

As I made my way deeper into the room, I began to hear what one would hear if they were in a forest; chirping bugs and the occasional flap of birds seemed to be my only company in this room. That was the thing that bothered me the most. I heard the bugs and other animals, but I didn't see any of them. I began to wonder how big this house was. From the outside when I first walked up to it, it looked like a regular house. It was definitely on the bigger side, but this was almost a full forest in here. The canopy covered my view of the ceiling, but I assumed it was still there, however high it was. I couldn't see any walls, either. The only way I knew I was still inside was that the floor matched the other rooms: the standard dark wood paneling.

I kept walking, hoping that the next tree I passed would reveal the door. After a few moments of walking, I felt a mosquito fly onto my arm. I shook it off and kept going. A second later, I felt about ten more land on my skin at different places. I felt them crawl up and down my arms and legs and a few made their way across my face. I flailed wildly to get them all off but they just kept crawling. I looked down and let out a muffled scream - more of a whimper, to be honest. I didn't see a single bug. Not one bug was on me, but I could feel them crawl. I heard them fly by my face and sting my skin but I couldn't see a single one. I dropped to the ground and began to roll wildly. I was desperate. I hated bugs, especially ones I couldn't see or touch. But these bugs could touch me and they were everywhere.

I began to crawl. I had no idea where I was going; the entrance was nowhere in sight and I still hadn't even seen the exit. So I just crawled, my skin wriggling with the presence of those phantom bugs. After what seemed like hours, I found the door. I grabbed the nearest tree and propped myself up, mindlessly slapping my arms and legs to no avail. I tried to run, but I couldn't; my body was exhausted from crawling and dealing with whatever it was that was on me. I took a few shaky steps to the door, grabbing each tree on the way for support.

It was only a few feet away when I heard it. The low hum from before. It was coming from the next room and it was deeper. I could almost feel it inside my body, like when you stand next to an amp at a concert. The feeling of the bugs on me lessened as the hum grew louder. As I placed my hand on the doorknob, the bugs were completely gone but I couldn't bring myself to turn the knob. I knew that if I let go, the bugs would return and there was no way I would make it back to room four. I just stood there, my head pressed against the door marked six and my hand shakily grasping the knob. The hum was so loud I couldn't even hear myself pretend to think. There was nothing I could do but move on. Room six was next, and room six was Hell.

I closed the door behind me, my eyes held shut and my ears ringing. The hum was surrounding me. As the door clicked into place, the hum was gone. I opened my eyes in surprise and the door I had shut was gone. It was just a wall now. I looked around in shock. The room was identical to room three - the same chair and lamp - but with the correct amount of shadows this time. The only real difference was that there was no exit door and the one I came in through was gone. As I said before, I had no previous issues in terms of mental instability, but at that moment I fell into what I now know was insanity. I didn't scream. I didn't make a sound.

At first I scratched softly. The wall was tough, but I knew the door was there somewhere. I just knew it was. I scratched at where the doorknob was. I clawed at the wall frantically with both hands, my nails being filed down to the skin against the wood. I fell silently to my knees, the only sound in the room the incessant scratching against the wall. I knew it was there. The door was there, I knew it was just there. I knew if I could just get past this wall -

"Are you alright?"

I jumped off the ground and spun in one motion. I leaned against the wall behind me and I saw what it was that spoke to me; to this day I regret ever turning around.

There was a little girl. She was wearing a soft, white dress that went down to her ankles. She had long blonde hair to the middle of her back and white skin and blue eyes. She was the most frightening thing I had ever seen, and I know that nothing in my life will ever be as unnerving as what I saw in her. While looking at her, I saw something else. Where she stood I saw what looked like a man's body, only larger than normal and covered in hair. He was naked from head to toe, but his head was not human and his toes were hooves. It wasn't the Devil, but at that moment it might as well have been. The form had the head of a ram and the snout of a wolf.

It was horrifying and it was synonymous with the little girl in front of me. They were the same form. I can't really describe it, but I saw them at the same time. They shared the same spot in that room, but it was like looking at two separate dimensions. When I saw the girl I saw the form, and when I saw the form I saw the girl. I couldn't speak. I could barely even see. My mind was revolting against what it was attempting to process. I had been scared before in my life and I had never been more scared than when I was trapped in the fourth room, but that was before room six. I just stood there, staring at whatever it was that spoke to me. There was no exit. I was trapped here with it. And then it spoke again.

"David, you should have listened."

When it spoke, I heard the words of the little girl, but the other form spoke through my mind in a voice I won't attempt to describe. There was no other sound. The voice just kept repeating that sentence over and over in my mind and I agreed. I didn't know what to do. I was slipping into madness, yet couldn't take my eyes off what was in front of me. I dropped to the floor. I thought I had passed out, but the room wouldn't let me. I just wanted it to end. I was on my side, my eyes wide open and the form staring down at me. Scurrying across the floor in front of me was one of the battery-powered rats from the second room.

The house was toying with me. But for some reason, seeing that rat pulled my mind back from whatever depths it was headed and I looked around the room. I was getting out of there. I was determined to get out of that house and live and never think about this place again. I knew this room was Hell and I wasn't ready to take up a residency. At first, it was just my eyes that moved. I searched the walls for any kind of opening. The room wasn't that big, so it didn't take long to soak up the entire layout. The demon still taunted me, the voice growing louder as the form stayed rooted where it stood. I placed my hand on the floor, lifted myself up to all four and turned to scan the wall behind me.

Then I saw something I couldn't believe. The form was now right at my back, whispering into my mind how I shouldn't have come. I felt its breath on the back of my neck, but I refused to turn around. A large rectangle was scratched into the wood, with a small dent chipped away in the center of it. Right in front of my eyes I saw the large seven I had mindlessly etched into the wall. I knew what it was: room seven was just beyond that wall where room five was moments ago.

I don't know how I had done it - maybe it was just my state of mind at the time - but I had created the door. I knew I had. In my madness, I had scratched into the wall what I needed the most: an exit to the next room. Room seven was close. I knew the demon was right behind me, but for some reason it couldn't touch me. I closed my eyes and placed both hands on the large seven in front of me. I pushed. I pushed as hard as I could. The demon was now screaming in my ear. It told me I was never leaving. It told me that this was the end but I wasn't going to die; I was going to live there in room six with it. I wasn't. I pushed and screamed at the top of my lungs. I knew I was going to push through the wall eventually.

I clenched my eyes shut and screamed, and the demon was gone. I was left in silence. I turned around slowly and was greeted by the room as it was when I entered: just a chair and a lamp. I couldn't believe it, but I didn't have time to well. I turned back to the seven and jumped back slightly. What I saw was a door. It wasn't the one I had scratched in, but a regular door with a large seven on it. My whole body was shaking. It took me a while to turn the knob. I just stood there for a while, staring at the door. I couldn't stay in room six. I couldn't. But if this was only room six, I couldn't imagine was seven had in store. I must have stood there for an hour, just staring at the seven. Finally, with a deep breath, I twisted the knob and opened the door to room seven.

I stumbled through the door mentally exhausted and physically weak. The door behind me closed and I realized where I was. I was outside. Not outside like room five, but actually outside. My eyes stung. I wanted to cry. I fell to my knees and tried but I couldn't. I was finally out of that hell. I didn't even care about the prize that was promised. I turned and saw that the door I just went through was the entrance. I walked to my car and drove home, thinking of how nice a shower sounded.

As I pulled up to my house, I felt uneasy. The joy of leaving NoEnd House had faded and dread was slowly building in my stomach. I shook it off as residual from the house and made my way to the front door. I entered and immediately went up to my room. There on my bed was my cat, Baskerville. He was the first living thing I had seen all night and I reached to pet him. He hissed and swiped at my hand. I recoiled in shock, as he had never acted like that. I thought, "Whatever, he's an old cat." I jumped in the shower and got ready for what I was expecting to be a sleepless night.

After my shower, I went to the kitchen to make something to eat. I descended the stairs and turned into the family room; what I saw would be forever burned into my mind, however. My parents were lying on the ground, naked and covered in blood. They were mutilated to near-unidentifiable states. Their limbs were removed and placed next to their bodies, and their heads were placed on their chests facing me. The most unsettling part was their expressions. They were smiling, as though they were happy to see me. I vomited and sobbed there in the family room. I didn't know what had happened; they didn't even live with me at the time. I was a mess. Then I saw it: a door that was never there before. A door with a large eight scrawled on it in blood.

I was still in the house. I was standing in my family room but I was in room seven. The faces of my parents smiled wider as I realized this. They weren't my parents; they couldn't be, but they looked exactly like them. The door marked eight was across the room, behind the mutilated bodies in front of me. I knew I had to move on, but at that moment I gave up. The smiling faces tore into my mind; they grounded me where I stood. I vomited again and nearly collapsed. Then the hum returned. It was louder than ever and it filled the house and shook the walls. The hum compelled me to walk.

I began to walk slowly, making my way closer to the door and the bodies. I could barely stand, let alone walk, and the closer I got to my parents the closer I came to suicide. The walls were now shaking so hard it seemed as though they were going to crumble, but still the faces smiled at me. As I inched closer, their eyes followed me. I was now between the two bodies, a few feet away from the door. The dismembered hands clawed their way across the carpet towards me, all while the faces continued to stare. New terror washed over me and I walked faster. I didn't want to hear them speak. I didn't want the voices to match those of my parents. They began to open their mouths and the hands were inches from my feet. In a dash of desperation, I lunged toward the door, threw it open, and slammed it behind me. Room eight.

I was done. After what I had just experienced, I knew there wasn't anything else this fucking house could throw at me that I couldn't live through. There was nothing short of the fires of Hell that I wasn't ready for. Unfortunately, I underestimated the abilities of NoEnd House. Unfortunately, things got more disturbing, more terrifying, and more unspeakable in room eight.

I still have trouble believing what I saw in room eight. Again, the room was a carbon copy of rooms three and six, but sitting in the usually empty chair was a man. After a few seconds of disbelief, my mind finally accepted the fact that the man sitting in the chair was me. Not someone who looked like me; it was David Williams. I walked closer. I had to get a better look even though I was sure of it. He looked up at me and I noticed tears in his eyes.

"Please... please, don't do it. Please, don't hurt me."

"What?" I asked. "Who are you? I'm not going to hurt you."

"Yes you are..." He was sobbing now. "You're going to hurt me and I don't want you to." He sat in the chair with his legs up and began rocking back and forth. It was actually pretty pathetic looking, especially since he was me, identical in every way.

"Listen, who are you?" I was now only a few feet from my doppelgänger. It was the weirdest experience yet, standing there talking to myself. I wasn't scared, but I would be soon. "Why are you-"

"You're going to hurt me you're going to hurt me if you want to leave you're going to hurt me."

"Why are you saying this? Just calm down, alright? Let's try and figure this-" And then I saw it. The David sitting down was wearing the same clothes as me, except for a small red patch on his shirt embroidered with the number nine.

"You're going to hurt me you're going to hurt me don't please you're going to hurt me..."

My eyes didn't leave that small number on his chest. I knew exactly what it was. The first few doors were plain and simple, but after a while they got a little more ambiguous. Seven was scratched into the wall, but by my own hands. Eight was marked in blood above the bodies of my parents. But nine - this number was on a person, a living person. Worse still, it was on a person that looked exactly like me.

"David?" I had to ask.

"Yes... you're going to hurt me you're going to hurt me..." He continued to sob and rock.

He answered to David. He was me, right down to the voice. But that nine. I paced around for a few minutes while he sobbed in his chair. The room had no door and, similarly to room six, the door I came through was gone. For some reason, I assumed that scratching would get me nowhere this time. I studied the walls and floor around the chair, sticking my head underneath and seeing if anything was below. Unfortunately, there was. Below the chair was a knife. Attached was a tag that read, "To David - From Management."

The feeling in my stomach as I read that tag was something sinister. I wanted to throw up and the last thing I wanted to do was remove that knife from under that chair. The other David was still sobbing uncontrollably. My mind was spinning into an attic of unanswerable questions. Who put this here and how did they get my name? Not to mention the fact that as I knelt on the cold wood floor I also sat in that chair, sobbing in protest of being hurt by myself. It was all too much to process. The house and the management had been playing with me this whole time. My thoughts for some reason turned to Peter and whether or not he got this far. If he did, if he met a Peter Terry sobbing in this very chair, rocking back and forth... I shook those thoughts out of my head; they didn't matter. I took the knife from under the chair and immidately the other David went quiet.

"David," He said in my voice, "What do you think you're going to do?"

I lifted myself from the ground and clenched the knife in my hand.

"I'm going to get out of here."

David was still sitting in the chair, though he was very calm now. He looked up at me with a slight grin. I couldn't tell if he was going to laugh or strangle me. Slowly, he got up from the chair and stood, facing me. It was uncanny. His height and even the way he stood matched mine. I felt the rubber hilt of the knife in my hand and gripped it tighter. I don't know what I was planning on doing with it, but I had a feeling I was going to need it.

"Now," his voice was slightly deeper than my own. "I'm going to hurt you. I'm going to hurt you and I'm going to keep you here." I didn't respond. I just lunged and tackled him to the ground. I had mounted him and looked down, knife poised and ready. He looked up at me, terrified. It was like I was looking in a mirror. Then the hum returned, low and distant, though I still felt it deep in my body. David looked up at me as I looked down at myself. The hum was getting louder and I felt something inside me snap. With one motion, I slammed the knife into the patch on his chest and ripped down. Blackness fell on the room and I was falling.

The darkness around me was like nothing I had experienced up to that point. Room four was dark, but it didn't come close to what was completely engulfing me. I wasn't even sure if I was falling after a while. I felt weightless, covered in dark. Then a deep sadness came over me. I felt lost, depressed, and suicidal. The sight of my parents entered my mind. I knew it wasn't real, but I had seen it and the mind has trouble differentiating between what is real and what isn't. The sadness only deepened. I was in room nine for what seemed like days. The final room. And that's exactly what it was: the end. NoEnd House had an end and I had reached it. At that moment, I gave up. I knew I would be in that in-between state forever, accompanied by nothing but darkness. Not even the hum was there to keep me sane.

I had lost all senses. I couldn't feel myself. I couldn't hear anything. Sight was completely useless here. I searched for a taste in my mouth and found nothing. I felt disembodied and completely lost. I knew where I was. This was Hell. Room nine was Hell. Then it happened. A light. One of those stereotypical lights at the end of the tunnel. I felt ground come up from below me and I was standing. After a moment or two of gathering my thoughts and senses, I slowly walked toward that light.

As I approached the light, it took form. It was a vertical slit down the side of an unmarked door. I slowly walked through the door and found myself back where I started: the lobby of NoEnd House. It was exactly how I left it: still empty, still decorated with childish Halloween decorations. After everything that had happened that night, I was still wary of where I was. After a few moments of normalcy, I looked around the place trying to find anything different. On the desk was a plain white envelope with my name handwritten on it. Immensely curious, yet still cautious, I mustered up the courage to open the envelope. Inside was a letter, again handwritten.

David Williams,

Congratulations! You have made it to the end of NoEnd House! Please accept this prize as a token of great achievement.

Yours forever,
Management.

With the letter were five $100 bills.

I couldn't stop laughing. I laughed for what seemed like hours. I laughed as I walked out to my car and laughed as I drove home. I laughed as I pulled into my driveway. I laughed as I opened my front door to my house and laughed as I saw the small ten etched into the wood.

~

I almost knew it was coming but the ending still scared me so bad. 10/10!

What do you guys think?
 
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Topic: Off-topic / The Cell Phone Game (Creepypasta Fridays #7)

Howdy. You can call me "Jack." It's not my real name, but that's what I'll go by for now. I reckon the time to tell my story has come. Believe it or don't, but here it is. I suggest you take away the lessons it teaches, even if you dismiss it all as bullshit like 98% of the other stories on the internet.
But there's more truth in this story than any one of you could know.
Now, I've been out of high school for three years, but that's when this particular event takes place, so I'm going to have to wind my clock back a little here to tell the story.
Originally, for my first two-and-a-half years of high school, I attended a school in the deep Southern part of America, close to the gulf. We had all kinds of ghost stories growing up and if there was one lesson our super-conservative parents taught us, it was this: Don't go fooling around in things you don't understand.
Now, I was really unpopular at my high school in the South. My first two years of high school were a real pain because I was a big dork and everyone made fun of me. I was a loner and all I really did in class was play my Game Boy all day before rushing home to play an MMO I was addicted to.
All of that changed during my Junior year, when my mother's job moved us out West.
I started to attend a little Catholic high school with no more than around 250 students. It was at this time that I finally started to fit in and make friends. No one out here knew how much of a dork I was, so I opted to "hide my power level," as they tend to say on /a/, and try to make friends for once in my life. Who knows? Maybe I could even get a cute girlfriend if I was careful.
I started to meet people at the school. At a school that small, you end up knowing everyone in your class.
My first day I made a new friend named Sam and at lunch I opted to sit with him and his friends. He told me all about the other kids at the school - who was most popular, who the jocks were, so on and so forth.
He introduced me to his friends, too: Jim, a big jovial fellow who tipped the scales at 300lbs, Vogelman, our table's resident computer nerd and hacker, and Thomas, a musician who played electric guitar.
I also met Stephanie, the school's resident spunky Asian girl. Some of the guys said she could be a bitch, but she seemed cool enough. She was into gaming and never messed with any of us. She even seemed to think I was funny, so maybe that's why she started to call me at home after school on some days.
Sam told me all kinds of stories about her, like how she used to make snacks for guys at the school but then sprinkle Viagra all over them or pour laxatives into them so that anyone who ate it would suffer the brunt of her painful and arguably cruel joke. I just chuckled to myself and politely refused whenever she offered me anything.
Then... there was Rottenbacher. His real name was Jason, but everyone always called him "Rottenbacher" or "the Kraut" because he was a hardcore Nazi. He was an outcast and an loner, and no one wanted to be associated with him. Every day he'd wear a red Swastika armband to school just beneath his jacket where the teachers couldn't see, but whenever he'd get hot and slip it off - or whenever he was changing in the locker room - he'd be wearing the Nazi armband.
Furthermore, on Halloween and on school costume "event" days when he knew he could get away with it, Rottenbacher always wore an entire replica of an SS uniform like the Gestapo wear, with the black hat and the long boots.
He was a mean and angsty son-of-a-bitch. Whenever anyone told a teacher about him or asked him about the Nazi stuff, he'd shout racial or ethnic slurs at them, cuss them out, and yell "Heil Hitler!"
Furthermore, one peculiar thing that caught my eye was that I couldn't help but notice that Rottenbacher always walked with a slight limp, like he was in pain. Sam told me that somebody once saw him tightening a barbed Cilice in the locker room like the ones the Catholic priests wear to punish themselves for their sins.
It was a Catholic school so I, like most people, just assumed at the time that maybe he just wore the Cilice because he's a devout Christian. It was kind of strange for a hardcore Hitler lover like Rottenbacher, but it was high school and none of us preferred to think too much about stuff like that.
After he got done introducing me to everyone, Sam told me some of the school's old stories - including an urban legend that circulated about Kaylee, a girl that died mysteriously after playing some sort of "cell phone game." Sure enough, he could point out the girl in the year book to me and everyone recalled that the police had declared her missing under mysterious circumstances; she was presumed dead almost immediately thereafter. If you asked anyone exactly what happened, no one could tell you a damn thing. They always just said it was because she played the "cell phone game."
Sam. Stephanie the cute, mischievous Asian. Rottenbacher the self-torturing Nazi. The cell phone game. The police's investigation of a teen's disappearance. All of these people and events were about to come together to drag me into something in which I wanted no part. It wouldn't even be until over two years later that I finally understood how and why everything went down just the way it did.
Anyway, the last half of Junior year came and went, and the long summer passed us all by in what seemed like a heartbeat; it was finally time to begin our last year of high school.
Everyone was back for the new school year, pumped to start the laziest and most fun year of our high school lives. Even Rottenbacher, still limping around the school in that barbed Cilice, still spouting his Nazi garbage every time someone decided to mess with him.
The year started out eerily quiet. Word was that two more "cell phone game" related disappearances had happened over the summer to one boy and one girl from another high school and that the police were investigating a possible serial killer. According the the paper, the only common link the police had found was that every person who disappeared had received a text message that read, "Welcome to the game." None of the text messages had been sent from the same cell phone, so this evidence had been dismissed as circumstantial.
For me, things weren't half bad. It was this year when I finally started to open up more as a person. I had made a good circle of friends who I trusted and I felt more calm about being myself at this point. Gradually, I started to fit in more and more and pretty soon I was pretty popular in certain circles.
Stephanie liked to hang around with me more and more because of how funny she thought my jokes were. Before long, one day - which I still remember as one of the happiest of my life - she came to me in the middle of campus after school and looked up at me with this beautiful Asian eyes and that long, black hair and a smile to die for. She asked me right then, "Jack, will you go out with me?"
I laughed, ran, and jumped for joy. "Of course I will," I said, and danced around with her there in front of everyone. I finally had a girlfriend. I still remember that as one of the happiest days of my entire life, if not THE happiest. we went on dates, we hung out after school, and she even started to eat lunch with Sam, Jim, Vogelman, and I every day.
Maybe I wouldn't have been so happy had I known what was going to happen next.
It was one day at lunch when she was sitting with us, when she mentioned that while sleeping over with her friends one night, they had stayed up late with some girls from another high school talking about the cell phone game. She said that these girls knew all about the rules of the game and that they had explained it all to her in great detail.
Supposedly, you can join the game at any time by sending a text message at midnight to the right phone number. The text message was supposed to say, "I wish for the power to curse." If you did it right, you would get a message in return that said, "Welcome to the game," and, supposedly, this was the reason they had given for why the police found that message on the phones of everyone that had disappeared.
Stephanie went on to talk about the game. We all listened attentively to what she was saying.
She told us that once someone was in the game, they were in danger. Within two weeks, they had to complete one of a number of different tasks or else they would be dragged away in the night.
I stopped her right there. "Dragged away? By what? To where?"
She got silent for a moment.
"I don't know," she whispered before continuing her story.
She said that in order to protect oneself from being dragged away, you could one of two things:
The first was to find a special protective item. The item could be anything. You never knew what it was going to be, but it seemed that whatever the item was, it would make the bearer suffer in some way. This was considered a small price to pay in return for protection for as long as you wore the item.
The second way was to bring someone else into the game. This could be done by sending the text message, "Welcome to the game," to someone else's phone. If someone received the text message from someone else who was in the game, then that meant that this person was now in the game, too, and subject to all of the same rules and consequences of the game. If the person didn't find a protective item themselves, or bring another person into the game, then they too would be dragged away.
The catch about the second was this: While the protective item, if found, could protect you indefinitely so long as you kept it with you, bringing someone else into the game would only buy you a temporary grace period. The first time you brought someone into the game, you'd get a two week extension. Then, only one week. Eventually the grace period would get shorter and shorter until you barely bought yourself any time at all by bringing someone else into the game. By that time, you needed to have found your protective item.
Even though I've always been something of an /x/phile, I didn't like hearing her talk about this stuff, so I told her it was a bunch of nonsense.
"You really think so?" She asked. "If it's true, it would explain what the police found. And imagine how cool that would be to be able to curse anyone who messed with you by bringing them into the game! You could get rid of anyone and no one would ever know."
There was an edge in her voice I'd never heard before from Stephanie. She almost sounded intoxicated at the thought of it. Truth be told, it scared me a little.
"Don't go talking like that," I told her. "Stuff like that's beyond people like you and me. We shouldn't go messing with stuff like that. What if you got involved in it and then it all turned out to be true? What would I do if something happened to you? Promise me you won't go messing around in that stuff."
She gave me a funny look. "I never thought you would be the kind of person to be scared of silly things like this, Jack."
"Well, I don't think it's right to mess around in stuff you don't understand, you know?" I gave her a concerned look. "Now promise me, Steph. Promise you won't go try it."
She sighed in annoyance. "Fine, fine. I won't play the scary cell phone game. ARe you happy now?"
I told her I was, but truth be told I was scared. I didn't believe her. In all the time I'd known her, I'd never seen her betray anyone or sleep around or anything, but she had always been a trickster and a liar, and would lie to anyone about anything if it got her ahead without hurting anyone else. But, to be honest, I always thought it was kind of cute and just accepted it as one of her quirks. But this time it was serious.
So, a few days later, when she came back and told us that she had joined the cell phone game, I was pissed.
"What are you thinking, Stephanie? You promised me you wouldn't do that!"
"Yeah, yeah I know! But it's not any big deal. I've already got it all planned out. Besides, if it's true and it works, it's too good of an opportunity to pass up!"
She held up her cell phone. "Look!" She said giddily.
A text message was open on the screen which read, "Welcome to the game."
"Kind of freaky, huh? I got it just after I sent the text at midnight, just like the girls said."
My jaw dropped. I was speechless and scared stiff. This game couldn't be for real, could it?
"Stephanie, if this is real, then you're in danger now. You've only got two weeks to find the protective item."
"I know. That's why I sent the text to Rebecca. I'm gonna find out if it's true or not!"
I hit the roof. "You did WHAT?! But Stephanie, if this is real then that makes you as good as a murderer! You cursed Rebecca and now she could die because of you!"
"Relax, Jack. I don't actually believe any of this stuff. But even if I did, Rebecca's always been a big time bitch. It's not like she doesn't have it coming anyway." She giggled that same mischievous giggle of hers that I'd always loved. But this time, I wasn't loving any part of it.
A couple of weeks passed and nothing happened. But then, one day, Rebecca didn't show up at school. At lunchtime, Stephanie was sitting around with us as usual when the assistant principal came to talk to us all with a megaphone.
"May I have your attention, please." Everyone got silent. "The police have reported that one of your fellow students, Rebecca, has gone missing."
Stephanie's golden skin turned white. She froze.
"Her parents are very worried about her. If any of you know anything about this, please come and talk to me after school. That is all."
"Stephanie..." I whispered. I was very afraid for her. I was very afraid for what she might do. She looked at me and said, "Don't say anything. Just don't."
She got up and bolted from the lunch room. I chased after her.
"Stephanie! Stephanie! What are you doing?"
She kept jogging away from me, her cell phone out.
"Don't try to stop me, Jack. If I'm going to survive, I'm going to need more time. I can get another week if I curse someone else, and that'll give me three weeks to find it."
"Stephanie, listen to yourself! Who are you going to curse? You'd kill someone else for a little extra time? Look what's happened to you!"
She was starting to cry.
"I know, damn it! But I know who I'm going to curse. No one's going to miss them, I promise."
"Stephanie, that's not right. You can't do it. No one deserves this. Let me help you! We can find a protective object for you together!"
She turned and showed me her cell phone. Her text outbox had a message which read, "Welcome to the game."
She had sent it to Rottenbacher.
I started to weep. I grabbed onto her as tightly as I could. "Stephanie, Stephanie. I love you. I'm so sorry. This isn't right. None of this is right."
She held onto me and began to cry deeply as well. We held each other there for nearly an hour like that. I still remember it like it was yesterday.
Then, that night before we went home, we both resolved we would start looking for a protective item the next day.
The next day, I was walking with Stephanie along the track after school when Rottenbacher approached us with his cell phone. He was furious. He held it up to her face.
"Is this your idea of a joke, you stupid slant-eyed bitch?"
Truth be told, I felt Rottenbacher had the right to be a little angry. Sure, he was a Nazi pervert freak, but with all of the whispers of murder going around, I could imagine anyone being angry about getting a text like that.
But even so, I wasn't about to let anyone talk to my girl that way.
"Hey, buddy, you watch your mouth. That's no way to talk to a lady."
"Lady?" Rottenbacher shouted. "This fucking slut is not a lady. She's just a bitch, and she tried to kill me! I bet you killed that other girl, too, didn't you? Rebecca? She's missing 'cause of you, isn't she?"
Stephanie began to cry again.
I pulled my arm back and punched as hard as I could at Rottenbacher's face. He stumbled backwards a few steps and grabbed at his lip, from which trickled a little stream of blood, but he kept his composure.
I halfway expected him to swing back at me, but he just stood there.
After a moment, he spoke.
"You just don't get it, do you Stephanie? I'M ALREADY IN THE GAME. I always have been. I know the fucking score. But unlike you, I never cursed anyone else."
"Bullshit!" I said. "If all that's true, then how are you still-"
Suddenly, I remembered the Cilice Rottenbacher wore around his leg that caused him to limp in agony, and what Stephanie had told me at lunch.
Whenever a new protective item was discovered, whatever it was, it would cause its bearer to suffer.
"Your protective item! You have one!"
Stephanie's eyes lit up. It was clear that had realized the same thing that I had. Rottenbacher smirked. "That's right. So I just figured your girlfriend better know that she didn't get any additional time for trying to curse me. I've already been there and done that."
Stephanie looked up at him with fear in her eyes.
Days passed and, try as we might, Stephanie and I couldn't find anything that could qualify as a protective item. We were approaching the two-week deadline and she was looking more and more scared by the day. Her hair was a mess, her usually bubbly personality was glum and distraught. She stared off into space during classes and prayed constantly.
After the two-week deadline passed, we were both terrified. She came to me at school and said, "Jack, I want you to sleep with me tonight. Stay with me all night. Don't let it get me."
I couldn't refuse. I showed up at her house late that night and came in through her window. We slept together. It was bittersweet.
She went to sleep holding me, but I lay awake most of the night watching and waiting until I finally fell asleep around 4:30 in the morning from sheer exhaustion.
The next day, when I woke up, all I could think was "Stephanie!" I looked around frantically. She wasn't in the bed next to me.
"Stephanie!" I said louder as I climbed out of the bed and began to search for her. I walked into her kitchen.
"Don't be so loud," A voice said. It was Stephanie's. I turned around to see her sitting at a round table in the kitchen. She was smiling and seemed as giddy as ever.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
"My parents have already gone to work, but I don't want the neighbors to get suspicious and say something."
I wept with relief. It was over and she was safe. Nothing had come for her. I ran across the kitchen floor and hugged her, and kissed her all over.
Everything was perfect.
For two weeks.
Then I came to school one day and nine of our classmates had disappeared, including Sam.
Everyone was in an uproar. No one knew what had happened to them, or where they had gone. No one except for me and the person who had done it: Stephanie.
If the amount of time extended was halved each time you brought someone into the game, then nine people would have brought her just over two weeks. Which meant that her time would be running out again tonight.
I confronted her about it after school.
"Stephanie, the police are getting suspicious. You can't do this any more, and I can't watch you do this any more. It's wrong. It's evil!"
She looked at me silently. I still remember the look in her eyes that day. At this point, it had become clear to me that the girl I had known and loved was long gone, and all that remained was a soulless, wicked shell which clung to life and feared death more than anything. But, even so, I still loved her more than anything. She was my first and only girlfriend, and I couldn't let her go. I couldn't let anything happen to her.
"It's okay," She said. "I won't do it anymore. I've accepted what I need to do, and I'm going to do it. No one else is going to die because of me."
"Stephanie... are you sure? Maybe we can still find a protective item for you if we look now."
She looked down sadly. "There's no use in running from it now. I just want to spend the night with you tonight, okay? One more night together. That's all I want."
I was heartbroken. Everything was too melancholic and too melodramatic. I was so sad at hearing her words, at the thought of her being taken away.
I threw up. I vomited and retched over and over again into a nearby garbage can trying to fight back an endless stream of tears.
That night, she slept with me again. Sick, weak, and tired, I passed out from pure exhaustion at 3:00 AM.
Less than an hour later, though, I awoke with a start.
Stephanie was gone.
I sat up and looked around in terror, then found a note. I read it.
"[Jack]: I'm sorry for lying to you again, but I'm not ready to die yet."
A chill went down my spine. I continued to read.
"I've figured out what I need to do. Don't worry, as I promised, no one else is going to die because of me."
What could she be thinking? I looked around my room. Suddenly, I noticed that the .45 caliber pistol my father had bought me for my 18th birthday was missing from my room, and everything made perfect sense.
That's why she had wanted to spend the night with me tonight. She wanted my gun. she was planning to go after Rottenbacher and take HIS protective item.
As fast as I could, I threw on some clothes and bolted for my truck. I sped off towards Rottenbacher's apartment.
When I got there, the lock had been shot off and there were voices inside.
I pushed the door open. "What's going on here?" I demanded.
I looked around. Stephanie was holding Rottenbacher at gunpoint with my .45. The apartment walls were covered in pictures of Adolf Hitler and Swastika banners. There were whips and chains scattered around the bedroom floor. Rottenbacher was stomping around in long sleeve pajamas and cursing at her in his typical neo-Nazi form, screaming at her about 'home invasion' and 'calling the police' and this and that. He was even wearing that stupid Nazi armband. It was obvious this guy was a lunatic fanatic.
Stephanie screamed at him. "Shut the fuck up!"
She fired a round at the wall behind him and winced.
I remember my ears ringing from the loudness of the gunshot and a sharp pain in my inner ear, but I was too tense to worry about it at the moment.
"Now give me that barbed torture thing you're always wearing or I'll kill you right now."
Her voice was all malice.
Rottenbacher stood in place for a moment and slowly began to remove his pajama leggings.
"you're making a big mistake," He said. "You should just accept the way things are and die with dignity. You're not going to get away with this."
He removed the cilice from his leg, from which trickled a small amount of blood and handed it to her.
Immediately, she slipped it onto her own leg with one hand, fumbling with my pistol as she tightened it until it hurt, and her own leg egan to bleed a little.
"Let's go, Jack." She whispered and turned to leave.
I started to walk out with her. From the apartment, I heard Rottenbacher's shouting.
"You won't get away with this! He's going to come for you and he's going to drag you off to Hell for what you've done! You're going to pay for all those kids!"
I could see that she was sobbing a little as we walked away.
I was sick. I was disgusted with everything. I was disgusted with Stephanie for being so cruel and selfish and I was disgusted for myself for seeing all of this, and seeing the signs, and not doing anything to stop it. But at least now it would be over.
As we walked back to my truck, I said a small prayer for Rottenbacher in the hopes that he could find a new protective item within two weeks. He may have been a racist bastard, but in a way, he was still better than Stephanie if what he said about never cursing anyone else was true, and he didn't deserve to die just for that.
I drove Stephanie home. She was exhausted. I would have given her a kiss on the cheek, but I was too sick and just wanted the whole ordeal to be over.
"Good night," I whispered to her.
"Good night, Jack. I love you," She whispered back, and climbed out of my truck and went back to her house.
I started to drive home, exhausted from the day's events.
Suddenly, my cell phone began to vibrate. I picked it up. It was a call from Stephanie.
I answered.
"Hello?"
The first thing I heard was a shriek, followed by what sounded like the noise of pounding at her door.
"Jack! Help! He's here! He's here and HE'S COMING FOR ME!"
"What? Hold on, Steph!"
I pulled a U-turn in my truck and sped off back towards her home. Stephanie was becoming more frantic.
Suddenly, on the other end of the line, I heard the sound of her door being bashed in, followed by another shriek. I could hear Stephanie screaming at the top of her lungs, a hideous, blood curdling scream. I still remember every moment of it perfectly, and I remember her screams word for word.
"No! No! I don't want to die!" Adrenaline surged through my heart and I floored the accelerator.
"No, no, no! Stop!"
She screamed again and I heard what sounded like the phone hitting the floor and Stephanie's screams getting further and further away.
And then, dead air.
"Stephanie? Stephanie?! Answer me, damn it!"
Getting no response, I hung up and called the police.
When I arrived at Stephanie's house, the front door had been smashed in. I parked my car on her lawn and jumped out, carrying my .45 caliber pistol with me.
I ran inside, searching the halls. Everything was in slow motion.
Then, I came to Stephanie's bedroom. I turned on the light and checked all of the corners with my pistol leading the way. At length, I lowered the gun as something caught my eye in the center of the room. Stephanie's cell phone lay on the floor next to her bed.
In the middle of the room, in the carpet, was a very small patch of blood. It wasn't more than a few drops. But the most chilling sight of all was that from the edge of her bed to the door of her room which lead out into the hall was a trail of claw marks that she had left as something or someone had dragged her away to her doom.
I couldn't take it any more. I turned and left her room. On the way out, I couldn't help but notice that she had torn out most of her fingernails clawing at the carpet and that they lay scattered near the trails her fingers had left.
I went out into the street and threw up again. I could hear the sirens coming in the distance.
Days passed, then weeks, then months. The police did investigations; they questioned me time and time again, and every time my stories were all the same. I told them the truth as I knew it, as unbelievable as it was. I don't think they believed me, but all of the evidence supported my story and there was nothing to implicate me in any of the crimes, so at length they finally let me go.
Things gradually went back to normal.
Our class eventually recovered from the losses of so many of our classmates, and over time my mind kind of accepted what had happened until it seemed like a distant dream. I graduated and moved on to college.
But there was one thing that still bothered me through it all, and that was Rottenbacher. He had been exactly right. Even though Stephanie had taken his cilice, he never vanished in the way that she and the others did.
But there is one thing that I do know, and that is to this very day, if you ever see Rottenbacher, he's still always wearing that red Nazi Swastika armband.

~

Well played, Rottenbacher was really a devoted Christian and was wearing cilice because he was shamed in having to wear the Swastika.
Good story, I really enjoyed it.

What did you think?
 
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Topic: Off-topic / The Soul Game (Creepypasta Fridays #6)

Please help me.
Please read this to the end.
That’s it. That’s all I ask. I don’t know what to do or where to turn. Please just help me. That’s all I ask.
My name is Andrea, and I’m a single mother.
I don’t tell you this like it’s some badge of honor and I’m expecting cookies, milk, and chocolate-covered snowflakes like most of the others in my social circle would. They want your pats on the back and recognition; I just want some of your time.
I see motherhood as a burden. Necessary, yes, but still a burden. My son’s name is Jesse. He’s eleven. That’s fifth grade for the math haters.
Jesse started the fifth grade this year like any other kid would. There was a little bit of trepidation and lots of excitement. He was a happy-go-lucky sort of kid. Full of life and energy.
All that changed after he met Stan on Tuesday.
Stan was a late addition to Jesse’s class; a transfer student from another district. Jesse’s teacher sat Stan next to Jesse.
When I picked Jesse up after school on Tuesday, he told me that Stan was his new best friend. He wasn’t acting like himself though. He was pale and sweaty. I took his temperature, but he wasn’t running a fever. I asked about his day and all he would tell me was that Stan was his new best friend.
“Stan’s my new best friend,” Jesse would say.
“I know. I can’t wait to meet him,” I’d say back.
“Mom, Stan is great. You should meet him. He’s my new best friend. The best in the world.”
We must’ve had this same conversation a thousand times that night. When I tucked Jesse in bed, he looked up at me with tears in his eyes. He put his little hand in front of his face and wiggled his index finger, telling me to come closer.
I bent over him and he put his hands to either side of his mouth. You know, the little kid way of telling a secret? Well I turned my head and he whispered something into my ear that chilled me. At the time, I didn’t know why it chilled me, but it did.
He whispered, “You believe me. Right, Mom?”
I sat back up and looked down at him. “Believe you about what, honey?”
“Stan,” he said. “Stan’s my best friend.”
I nodded and took his temperature once more.
Again, he wasn’t running a fever.
I went to bed, but couldn’t really sleep that night.
On Wednesday, when I pulled up to the school to drop Jesse off, he got this really weird look on his face and told me that he didn’t want to go in.
“Are you feeling sick?” I asked.
“No,” he said. He was chewing on his bottom lip like crazy. This was something else I’d never seen him do. “No. I need to go to school.”
He opened the car door and got out.
No goodbye.
No I love you.
Nothing.
He trudged up the front steps of the school with his head down. I let off the brake and turned away to drive to work.
A little boy was standing right in front of my car. Two more seconds and I would’ve run him over. The boy was pale, with a mop of blonde hair that was almost white and bright blue eyes. He knocked on the hood of my car twice, waved once, and walked up the stairs to school.
When I picked Jesse up after school on Wednesday, he looked a lot better. He was a tiny bit paler than normal, but he seemed happy. He told me all about his day. He told me about dinosaurs, and music, and math, and then he told me about recess.
“And then after math period, we had recess. Mom, you’ll never guess what I did today at recess.”
“Tell me,” I said, smiling to myself as I’m driving. I’m thinking tag, football, keep away. All the things I remember the boys doing at recess when I was that age. Something benign, something normal.
“I joined a church!”
I frowned at this. “A church? At… recess?”
Jesse nodded. “The church of Stan.”
I thought that it must be some sort of new make believe game that the kids were playing.
“What’s the church of Stan?” I asked.
“It’s Stan’s church, Mom.” Jesse laughed like I was the silliest person in the world for asking that question.
“What do you guys do though? You know, as members?” I asked.
“Lots of stuff. Today though, we just listened to Stan talk. He was saying some funny words and I got sleepy and dozed off. A bunch of us did.”
I pulled into the driveway at home and we got out.
“Was that it?” I asked. Things sounded weird for sure, but the kids didn’t seem to be doing anything wrong.
“Stan gave us flyers, too.”
Jesse pulled out a crinkled up piece of paper and handed it to me.
It was a piece of manilla paper with three words written in black marker.
Church of Stan.
Again, weird, but nothing wrong. I just thought the boys were playing make believe.
I was wrong.
When I picked Jesse up after school yesterday, I could tell that something was very wrong with my little boy. He looked panicked and scared.
“What’s going on, honey?” I asked, reaching out to feel his forehead.
No fever.
“We played The Soul Game today,” he said. Jesse’s head was on a swivel. He couldn’t sit still. He kept looking all around as we headed home.
“The Soul Game?” I asked.
Jesse just nodded and kept trying to look everywhere at once. Beads of sweat dotted his upper lip.
“What’s The Soul Game?” I asked.
Jesse shook his head no and said nothing.
“Jesse, what’s The Soul Game?” I asked.
“I told him I didn’t want to, but he said he wouldn’t be my friend anymore if I didn’t play.”
“Who wouldn’t be your friend? Where were the teachers?”
Jesse started breathing harder, but still answered.
“It happened in the church,” he said. Then he whispered, “Teachers aren’t allowed in the church.”
“The Church of Stan?” I asked.
Jesse nodded, and a tear slipped down his cheek.
“What’s The Soul Game, Jesse? I’m your mother. You tell me right now and I’ll take care of everything,” I said.
“I can’t tell you, Mom. I can’t. The rules are bad. They’re so bad.”
“What about Stan?” I asked. “Will Stan tell me the rules?”
“NO!” Jesse screamed this and scared me half to death. “DON’T ASK HIM THE RULES. PLEASE DON’T, MOM. PLEASE.”
I pulled into the driveway, scared and confused.
“Promise me, Mom. Promisemepromisemepromisemeplease.”
Jesse was bawling now, terrified. I took him into my arms and rocked him. I hadn’t rocked him like that since he’d been in Kindergarten. He fell asleep in my arms and I carried him inside. I took him straight to his room and got him ready for bed.
He just needs sleep, I kept telling myself. All he needs is sleep.
I put him to bed and ate dinner alone. I checked up on him around nine when I went to bed. He seemed to be sleeping well so I decided to go to sleep.
I woke up to him screaming at the top of his lungs eighteen minutes after midnight last night. I ran to his room, but he wasn’t in his bed. I turned on the light and Jesse came flying out of the closet like something was chasing him. He latched onto my leg and kept screaming.
I tried to calm him down and ask what was wrong at the same time.
He wasn’t making any sense. He kept screaming about The Soul Game.
He was impossible. I kept asking what that was, but he wouldn’t tell me.
I tried to put him back to bed, but he would have none of it.
Finally, I just took him to my room and he slept in my bed. Jesse fell right to sleep. I was lying on my side watching him, stroking his hair, when his eyes popped open and he stared right into mine.
“I’ll tell you the rules after school tomorrow, lady,” he said. Then he closed his eyes.
What was going on with my kid?
In the darkness, I stared at the ceiling for a long time before rolling over to my side and staring into the bathroom.
You know how when you’re edge of sleep, sometimes your leg will kick and jerk you awake? Or you’ll imagine you’re falling or that you’ve just tripped over something and get jerked awake?
That happened to me all last night, only I kept being ripped from sleep by seeing something in the doorway to the bathroom.
Every time my eyes would start to slip shut, I’d see the dark outline of something large in the doorway and jerk awake. Of course nothing would be there, and I would start falling asleep again. The outline would appear in the doorway once more, but it would be closer to me, like it had taken a baby step.
Over and over this happened until morning.
This morning on the way to school, Jesse seemed out of it. Lethargic. I felt the same way. I was even more exhausted. I thought of asking Jesse about what he’d said right before he fell asleep, but couldn’t. I was afraid it would send him into hysterics again so I left it alone.
I drove him to school, and he didn’t say a word the whole time. He was acting like a robot; listless, unemotional.
I got a call, shortly after dropping him off, to come pick him back up. He’d vomited in class.
When I picked him up, he was the same. I asked him several questions, but he only gave me grunts in response. The plan at home was to get him changed out of his dirty clothes and then take him to the doctor.
He didn’t say anything until we pulled into the driveway.
“Can Stan come over today?” He asked. He stared out windshield at the garage door.
“You’re not feeling well, honey, and do you really want him to come over?” I asked. I wanted to meet this kid, but it didn’t sound like Jesse wanted him over. I, however, wanted to get to the bottom of things.
“Yes,” Jesse said.
“Okay,” I said. “Do you have his parent’s number?”
“He already asked his parents, and they said it was okay.”
“We have to wait until he’s out of class, and I’d still like to talk to his parents.”
“Okay.” Jesse got out of the car and we walked into the house.
“You have their number?” I asked as I shut the door.
“No,” he said.
I started to ask him how I was supposed to call them if I didn’t have their number, but someone knocked on the door.
I was still standing right next to it.
I opened the door, and standing on my front step was the pale little boy with the blue eyes and mop of white-blonde hair that I’d almost run over on Wednesday. A little girl stood next to him with the same complexion.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Hi, Driz,” the little boy said. “Is Jesse home?”
The little boy standing on my front porch shouldn’t have known that name. It was my nickname from college. Created on a drunken night amongst my girlfriends, shortened from Drizzy.
“No,” I said.
“That’s fine,” the little girl said. “My name is Devin, and you already know my brother’s name.”
“Stan,” I said.
The little girl covered her mouth and giggled.
Stan smiled and shrugged. “It’s really quite simple. Rule one: don’t walk past mirrors in the dark. Rule two: don’t leave any doors open when you go to bed tonight. Ask your son what rule three is and remember, a creak means you’re falling behind, a rustle means you’ve almost lost. When the lights go down, hopefully you won’t see the dark shadow standing in the corner of the room. Hopefully you won’t hear it breathing as your eyes shut and you begin to drift off. And if you hear a bang? Well, hopefully you never hear a bang.”
Stan turned and walked away with his sister.
I stared after them both and shook my head. I wouldn’t play their stupid game.
I walked into the house and found Jesse sitting at the kitchen table, crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I heard a bang,” he whispered.
My mouth went dry. “When does the game end?” I asked.
“It doesn’t,” he whispered. “It never ends.”
My heart started beating faster. “What’s the third rule, Jesse?”
His face fell and he sucked in a deep breath. “Rule three. Knowing all three rules makes you a player.”
My stomach dropped. “What happens if you lose?”
“When it’s dark, you’ll hear them coming. They like to let you know when they’re getting close.”
“Who?”
“Stan and Devin,” Jesse said. “They’ll reach out through the mirrors or open doorways and drag you through.”
“How do you win?” I asked.
“You win if you tell more people the rules to The Soul Game than the person that told you does.”

~

I’d give this a 7/10 … It was good but it didnt really give an ending

What did you guys think?

 
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Topic: Off-topic / The Showers, PART 2, WARNING: LONG (Creepypasta Fridays #5)

I’m awake now, semi-sober, and ready to finish this for you guys, the internet, and whoever cares to hear it.

I didn’t find out that Mr. Mays had passed away until a couple months after the funeral service. Initially, I was going to seek out his family in order to send my condolences, but it wasn’t as if Mr. Mays and I were best friends or anything like that; so, I refrained. I continued through my college career and graduated a year or so after our bar meeting.

Graduating with English as my major wasn’t a mistake, but it wasn’t exactly something that landed me any sort of immediate jobs after college. Now, I had saved a pretty solid amount of money while I was in school and decided that I deserved a bit of a vacation, if you will. I took my spare cash, got together with my college buddy Steve, packed up and hit the road, aiming for somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. I had lived near Littleton, Colorado when I was younger and remembered loving the area, so this destination was as good as any.

The trip was a success. We made it somewhere around Estes Park, Colorado and found a cheap cabin that we rented for about a month. The days were filled with lounging, hiking, and generally things that involved little-to-no work on our parts. After our rental was through, we packed up again and headed on our way back east.

Sometime during this trip, we had met up with a couple Estes Park natives in one of the local bars. We never typically “hung out” with them or anything like that; we just had conversations now and then over drinks and food. One night, these guys were paying their tab and packing up to leave awfully early; they were usually there until the wee hours of the morning. When we questioned them about it, they told us that they were headed to a little get-together with some friends of theirs, and they invited us. Having nothing else to do, we hopped in the car and followed them to the party.

The party itself was very low-key, and ultimately inconsequential to this story; however, the important thing about it was that at some point in the night, we were all sitting around the fire and swapping ghost stories. At this point in my life, I wasn’t as much of a ham as I was in my younger years. But, with a little bit of encouragement, I started on a couple of stories that I remembered telling in my youth. Eventually, I made it to Mr. Mays’ story about “The Showers.” Every time that I had told it after hearing it from Mr. Mays, I had spiced it up a little bit. But, out of some sort of subconscious respect for my former teacher, I went straight into the version that he told my class in my sophomore year of high school.

The group enjoyed my stories for the most part, “The Showers” being the mutual favorite among the partygoers. Steve and I left for the cabin at around five in the morning, and he asked me about that story on the drive home. I told him all about Mr. Mays, that class, my love for everything horror-related and whatnot, and he suggested that we tried to find the place on our return trip to New York. Initially I was reluctant simply because I didn’t feel like aimlessly wandering through Nebraska for days, looking for some old farm building that was probably demolished at this point. But, a couple of days before we left Colorado, I told Steve that it sounded like fun. We weren’t going to be able to do another trip like this for a long time, so I figured that we might as well make the best of it. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought of it as a little tribute to Mr. Mays, a guy that, in retrospect, helped me realize that I wanted to be a writer.

Anyway, we left Colorado and made the long, boring, and barren drive to Broken Bow, Nebraska, or “Hell on Earth” as Mr. Mays had put it. We found a motel in town and hung around for a couple of days, venturing out a hundred miles or so in any given direction each day after that. I had remembered Mr. Mays telling us that it was somewhere outside of Broken Bow, but I don’t think he got any more specific than that.

We tried asking the townsfolk if they had any information about The Showers, but we were usually met with blank stares or eye-rolling when we told them what exactly this place was. The only person who seemed to know anything about it was an older lady that worked at a gas station on the outskirts of town. I don’t recall her name, but this woman was just one of those cheerful old people, very helpful and generally interested in what anyone had to say to her. Steve had started talking to her at checkout and she asked about our license plate, commenting about the fact that we were very far from home. We had nowhere in particular to be, so Steve and I ended up talking to this woman for about fifteen minutes, at which point we brought up our hunt for the place known as “The Showers.”

Initially, the name didn’t ring any bells with the woman which made sense, seeing as Mr. Mays had just given it the name after his experience there. But, when I began to describe the details that I remembered from his story, the friendly old woman interrupted me. Her tone was not scornful or mean in any way, but she became very terse and deliberate with her words from that point on.

“People don’t deal with anything relating to that sort of business around here anymore,” she told us. “That was all a long time ago.” Following her statements, she attempted to be cheerful again, excusing herself to the restroom and wishing us the best on our return trip to New York.

Steve and I returned to the car without a word. Both of us were thinking about what the lady had said. Again, she didn’t seem to be angry at all, she just didn’t want to hear another word about it. We were driving back to the hotel before Steve said something. “I mean, if I had to live in a place associated with an urban legend or something like that, I would totally mess with anyone who asked about it,” he said. “I mean, eventually you’d just get tired of people asking about it and so you’d just try to scare them to get them to shut up, wouldn’t you?”

I agreed with Steve and kept driving, but the whole experience wasn’t sitting right with me. If this was some sort of well-known legend in the area, why did no one else in the town seem to know anything about it? But, I managed to shrug it off. Mind you, neither of us was scared of finding The Showers; this little excursion on our road trip was more like a scavenger hunt, a cap-off to an overall relaxing vacation. Steve and I were basically like tourists, hunting for the site at which a famous movie was filmed or something like that. We went into the whole situation with little to no expectations and a fleeting hope that we would be able to find this place.

We spent another day in Broken Bow before we took our next trip out to try to find The Showers. Nebraska isn’t as terrible of a place as people make it out to be, but it really isn’t all that exciting. We found a bar and spent some time there, and that was just about the extent of our activity on our “day off.”

When we did get back on the road, we decided that we would attempt to stay off of main roads for as much of the day as we could. I knew that there was no way that this place was going to be off of the highway and I remembered some detail about a dirt road in Mr. Mays’ story, so we went looking for those. This was a fairly futile effort; most of Nebraska is dirt roads.

It was seven in the evening when we came upon a small, but thick forest. I use the term lightly, but for Nebraska, this place was like an oasis. The trees were full and thick, shrouding most of its insides in darkness. The sun was setting and even though we had run into a few of these random crops of trees, we agreed that this one showed more promise than any of the others. There wasn’t really a road, but there looked to be a path where a dirt road might have been at some point, so we drove along that. If the car was able to handle the Rocky Mountains, a dirt path in Nebraska would give us no trouble.

We moved slowly and carefully along this trail, making sure to clear any fallen trees in the road or rocks that would render the car useless, when the sun finished setting. It was pretty dark in this place during the day, but when night came, it was something else entirely. I had an inkling at this point that we had found the right place, but I didn’t want to jinx it, so we continued onward. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the little bits of light that managed to penetrate the canopy in this miniature forest actually did make it look as if the tree branches were trying to grab the car, just like Mr. Mays had mentioned in the story. I’m still convinced that he made up the part about the animal eyes, though; the most aggressive creature we saw in the woods was a dead rabbit on the side of the trail. It didn’t have any obvious signs of death; it just looked like it had simply lay down and never bothered to get up.

We drove around in the darkness for quite a while before we found a clearing. We had to move several smaller clusters of branches out of the way before, but right in front of our exit was a giant, dead, monster of a tree. There was no way we were moving this one, so we got out and turned on the bright headlights in the hopes that it would illuminate the area in front of us. There was a feeling of excitement mixed strangely with fear when I saw what lay fifty feet beyond the clearing.

There, lit partially by the headlights from the car and the little bit of light from the crescent moon, was what appeared to be an old barn house. This wasn’t a typical farmhouse, it was larger than the barns that I had seen in films and didn’t have any sort of crest. It basically looked like a small warehouse. I wasn’t entirely sure at this point if this was the place we were looking for, but this was definitely the closest we had come.

I moved through the brush until I was roughly twenty feet from the entrance, at which point all of the growth seem to stop. I don’t know if the owners had done something to the soil, but the whole structure had a border around it that was clear of any sort of plant life. I approached the entrance to the building, a large sliding door, as Steve came up behind me with two flashlights in hand.
“So you were just going to run off into that place in the dark?” he laughed.

I gave a half-hearted chuckle and grabbed one of the lights from his hand. Mine was a little, but pretty bright flashlight; it was the kind that hikers would most likely fasten to their backpacks, just in case they were stranded at night. It worked well enough. I grabbed the metal door with both hands, holding the flashlight with my mouth, and gave it a tug. It moved slightly, creaked a little bit, but there was no way I was doing this by myself. Steve came up from behind, set his flashlight on the ground, grabbed the door, and said “one, two…three!”

We pulled at the door with all that we could muster. Once we had managed to move it a couple of inches, it must have latched back onto its track because it slid very easily, stopping hard with a loud and echoing thud when it was completely open. Steve picked up his flashlight and walked behind me; I had already moved inside.

The inside of the structure was exceptionally bare, almost troublingly so. I wasn’t entirely sure how far we were from the nearest home or small town, but there wasn’t even the slightest bit of evidence that anyone had been in this building for years. There were no broken beer bottles or empty bags of chips; there weren’t even any animal droppings or eager plants that managed to grow here. The room was expansive, larger than your average farm, but not the warehouse-sized monstrosity that I believed Mr. Mays had described in his story. I was sure that it was simply a holding area for farming equipment or something similar at some point.

Disappointed, I wandered near the entrance while Steve ventured into the expanse of darkness. As I was running over the details of the story in my mind, something struck me like a sack of bricks; in Mr. Mays’ story, there was a silo near the barn. I ran outside, my eyes adjusting easily because at the very least it was brighter outside. I looked in all directions, running around the perimeter of the building. Surely, if there was ever a silo near this place, there would be some evidence of it somewhere. But, despite my hopes, there was nothing but a cluster of thick bushes on one side, brush and dirt everywhere, and the forest that we had come from.

I walked back into the building, frustrated and tired. Steve was still excited, eagerly running around the inside of the building. “Even if I could just find a showerhead or a pipe,” he said. “Then we’d know it was true. Just keep looking with me.” I didn’t want to ruin his excitement; I had told Steve the story several times, but obviously he didn’t realize that this just wasn’t the place. The building was weird, yes. It was out of place and oddly pristine, but it wasn’t the location of The Showers. I let him explore for a little bit before I called him over.

“This was probably as close as we are going to get, man,” I said. “But this isn’t it. Remember the silo?” His face went from excitement to disappointment in an instant, much like a young child who didn’t get the presents he wanted on his birthday. I patted him on the shoulder. “This is still pretty cool, though. I mean, we could still tell people that we found it.” I was reverting back to my old habits quickly.

Steve laughed. “Yeah, man, I guess we could. It is definitely creepy enough. We should get some pictures as ‘proof,’ you know?” I agreed with him. “I’m gonna go grab the camera really quick,” he said as he bolted out the entrance of the building. I was left alone in the building.

It was very quiet when I was alone in there. I could hear the faint sound of Steve running through the brush and to the car, but once he was far enough away, everything was quiet. I remember not even hearing wind or the chirping of crickets as I walked deeper into the dark, flashlight in hand. I was convinced that there had to be something. As I approached the far corner of the room, the sound of my feet scratching against the dirt was interrupted by a soft, hollow thud. I stopped, trying to figure out what it was. I put my foot down hard against the ground and heard it again. I stomped one more time, realizing that the floor that I was standing on was covering something hollow.

I walked to the wall of the room, looking carefully at the floor to try to spot any holes or gaps. As far as I had known, it was solid ground that this thing sat atop, so I was convinced that I had found a hatch or a basement or something. I heard Steve coming back through the brush as I shouted, “Steve! Come over here, it’s hol-“ As I went to say the word “hollow,” I hopped a little bit, hoping to recreate the sound so that he would be able to hear it upon entering the door. The second that my feet made contact with the floor, I felt it give out beneath me.

The memory of the fall is fuzzy, but I do recall hearing wood splinter. I remember seeing the light from Steve’s flashlight falling away into complete darkness. It wasn’t a long fall, but I must have fallen in a terrible position because I know that I lost consciousness for several seconds at least.

When I woke up I was staring at a bright light. For an instant I had thoughts about approaching the fabled “light at the end of the tunnel.” I was angry at myself. “You died in Nebraska, Jack? Wow, you do know how to fuck up.” My self-deprecation in the afterlife was interrupted by what sounded like Steve’s voice.

“Jesus, Jack! Jack, can you hear me? Dude, wake up. Please, wake up,” he screamed.

I managed to lift my head up off of the floor just enough for him to celebrate. The pain in my head was immense, but it was outweighed by the pain shooting through my knee. I knew I had a concussion, but the pain in my knee was just so much more pressing. I looked around until I found my tiny flashlight, then sat up and reassured Steve. “I’m okay, I just hurt my knee; I bumped my head too, really hard.”

“Thank fuck, man. I thought you were dead. Imagine that, though, dying in fucking Nebraska. It’d be awful.” His words made me laugh a little bit, but I stopped myself; the slightest shaking hurt my head and made me incredibly dizzy. “I guess, a rope?” said Steve.
“What?” I asked, quietly.

“Should I go get a rope to get you out of here, or do you see a ladder?” I looked around the walls that sat in front of me; they were smooth cement. There was no way that I was climbing out of here. “Yeah, get the rope,” I told him. “It’s buried under all of our stuff. I think it might be in my red climbing bag, but I’m not sure.” Steve nodded, telling me to hang in there and that he would be back in a little bit, and then he ran off.

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. After the sound of Steve’s feet scraping the floor above me faded away, I was only able to hear that buzzing that occurs in total silence intertwined with the pulsing in my head. I pushed myself over to the nearest cement wall and braced myself against it, resting and breathing deep in an attempt to calm myself. The cement was unnaturally cold against my back. It was summer, so I only had a t-shirt on, but it felt like ice even through that. Again, this observation was primarily made after the fact. In the moment, it just felt good to lean against something.

I sat there, waiting for Steve in this underground basement, and I began to feel uneasy. I felt like an idiot for falling down here; I felt pain from my injuries as well. That all seemed to fade into one emotion in an instant when I heard what I could only identify as breathing, somewhere to my left. I convinced myself that it was my injured mind playing tricks on me for a few moments until my mind decided to rapidly replay Mr. Mays’ story. When I had first heard it in that classroom years before, I was more impressed than I was scared. But now, sitting in a dark basement in the middle of Nebraska, I felt something that I hadn’t felt in a long time; it couldn’t even be summed up in the word “fear.” As I sat there, I felt all-encompassing dread.

I pointed my flashlight to my left, the direction from which I thought I heard the sound. The light didn’t reach the other wall; it was too far away. But, I was comforted to see absolutely nothing there. I breathed deeply for a couple more seconds before I heard another noise in the darkness. It was very quick, and I cannot be sure that it wasn’t my own body moving around without my noticing; but I thought that I heard a scraping sound not ten feet in front of me. It sounded like the noise your feet make when you are walking across a dirt-covered floor. Before I could react, I heard the breathing to my left again, closer this time. There was no way this was real. I hadn’t seen so much as a spider web in this building and now I was convincing myself that something next to me was breathing?

I was angry at myself for getting so worked up. I told myself that the human brain is constantly hallucinating. I told myself that while in silence or darkness, the brain will make sounds to fill the gap, or make you think you see things that aren’t there. I channeled my inner-skeptic in order to calm myself; it worked. It worked until I saw a flash of something in front of me. I can’t be entirely sure what it was, but I heard the accompanying sounds of feet scraping against the floor and I began to swell with dread. I decided that the best course of action at this point was to turn off my flashlight, assuming that if they couldn’t see me, they couldn’t get to me, whatever “they” might be.

I turned off my flashlight and was left in complete and total darkness. The bulb of the flashlight faded as it cooled and I put it into my pocket, simultaneously pushing back against the cold cement wall in an attempt to stand. I managed to get up on my feet, well, foot, and found that I couldn’t stand to put any pressure on my injured knee. I limped to the corner, humming to myself, trying to break the deafening silence. I called for Steve, as loud as I could manage, but heard no response. He was probably in the back of the car, still hunting for the rope. There had to be a ladder or something, somewhere.

I continued to hum and my heartbeat, which had been beating almost out of my chest, slowed to a manageable rate. I moved along the cement wall, keeping my whole body against it and the weight off of my injured knee. I had traveled what I guessed to be about ten feet when my head made contact with something in front of me. I tumbled to the ground. My concussion must have amplified the pain, because it was blinding. I reached both hands to my forehead when I felt something warm and wet with my fingers. I searched for a cut anywhere on my forehead, but couldn’t find one. I desperately searched for my flashlight as I sat up and tried to get back against the wall.

I grabbed the light in my right hand, bracing against the wall with the other. I turned it on and pointed it into the darkness where I was just lying. The floor was wet, but the dirt had muddled the color of whatever the liquid was. I tried to get my eyes to focus on the puddle, tried to convince myself that it was my blood when I saw another drop fall into the puddle.

Words lack the ability to describe the way I felt when I heard the “drip” noise again, and saw yet another tiny ball of liquid fall into the puddle. I think I knew, even then, exactly what the source was, but I was endlessly trying to convince myself that I was wrong. I lifted the flashlight up and pointed it at the source of the liquid. What stared back at me was a pipe that protruded at least a foot out from the cement wall. The metal was rusted and cracked; little bits of the liquid began to seep from them. At the end of the pipe was a simple showerhead, aimed down towards the ground.

You know that feeling when your stomach drops? In this case, I think mine literally did, because I vomited immediately. It got all over my shoe, but that wasn’t the least bit important at the time. I ignored the pain in my knee and shuffled along the wall as fast as I possibly could. I heard noises, but I can’t be sure if it was just the sounds of my own movement or something around me. I managed to duck under the next showerhead. This one was higher up on the wall, and seemed to be leaking the same liquid that the other one was. I felt like I was moving along something infinite. Every now and then I would have to duck or move under another metal bar, another showerhead. They began to pour more profusely, but the liquid was too thick to come out easily.

The room began to smell. I remembered immediately the way that Mr. Mays had described it. I grabbed my shirt and put it over my nose, trucking onward, but it didn’t stop the smell for an instant. It smelled like vomit; it smelled like shit; it smelled like burnt hair; it smelled like rot.

I was still moving against the wall when I fell into some sort of outlet. I hit the dirt ground hard, adrenaline coursing through my veins; the pain still managed to break through, though. My flashlight was still in my hand; I aimed it and examined my surroundings. Sitting in front of me was a doorway. There was a door there, though it looked aged now. It had a nice little design on it, a doorknob, and a knocker that looked like a snarling demon. Red paint was peeling from it, flaking off and falling to the ground in front of me. I clumsily rose and busted through the door, narrowly missing a piece of hanging sheet metal in front of me. I was crawling now; there was no way that I could run. The walls and ceiling were lined with metal, the kind that you would see on the roof of a farm. Large pieces of wood seemed to brace the sheets, holding this makeshift tunnel together. I couldn’t risk sliding against that and possibly cutting myself on the metal, or hitting the wood and causing a cave-in. So I crawled.

I pulled myself for what felt like miles, running into walls every now and then because the path seemed to curve like a snake. I had no idea where I was in relation to the hole that I had fallen through, but I told myself that there was an exit at the end of this. Had I not been crawling, I would have surely hurt myself far worse. There were parts of the tunnel in which the ceiling dipped down to maybe three feet above the ground. It hadn’t caved in, because the ceiling still lined it. Someone had built it like this. This, again, is in hindsight. I didn’t care at the time. I kept telling myself there was nothing behind me, but I swore that I heard feet scraping only a few inches behind my own.

My jeans would brush against my legs every now and then, making it feel like someone was touching me, and even now, I still can’t completely convince myself that someone wasn’t. I crawled and crawled until I reached an upslope. With joy I looked ahead of me; there was a cellar door. The door was made of wood; I knew this because I could see light through them. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it might have been the light from the car’s headlights. Besides all of that, I was just so immensely happy to find an exit.

I crawled all the way to the door and threw my shoulder into it. It budged, but didn’t open. I began to scream, but I my throat seared with pain. The most I could manage was a harsh crying noise; it sounded like a dying animal. I collapsed in exhaustion and pain, my eyes staring up at the slits of light before me. I was so close to being out of here; I could taste it.

It was in that moment of silent defeat that I heard a noise that was, without question, something moving in the tunnel. It sounded like something was being dragged across the floor. It would move, pause for a second, and then move again. I had nothing left in my stomach to throw up, but I began to gag. I gathered myself slightly and tried to steady my hand enough to focus the flashlight into the tunnel.

What I saw, I can still not rationalize. I know what I saw, but I cannot convince myself that it was actually there. I can’t stop telling myself that I was hallucinating. I saw a child in a dirty sleeping gown. The gown was stained with something dark and brown, with occasional splashes of a deep red. The child was extremely frail, like the pictures that people might see of a holocaust victim. I could only make out one eye, brightly reflecting the light of my flashlight. In between huge tufts of long, dirty hair. It reached down beyond the fingertips of the child, which were caked with dirt. The boy, or girl, I’m not entirely sure which, moved towards me with difficulty. It wasn’t breathing hard, but it seemed that every movement of every muscle took every ounce of strength the child had. The thing that froze me, though, was the eye. It was only visible because it was reflecting my flashlight, but even in that glint, I could feel anger, or deep hatred, or something like it. This is the point in which the English language really lacks the right words to explain the situation. I could tell that this child meant me harm. Whether it was a hallucination or not, the thing was getting closer. I started to cry. It was getting closer and closer when I heard a voice from behind me. “Hey, Jack,” whispered the voice. It was Steve, I was certain.

I tried to talk back, fully intending to say, “Open this up and get me out right now.” However, given my current state, I am sure it just sounded like garbled nonsense. I clawed at the door, pushing against it with everything that I had and finally breaking eye contact with the child. As I did this, the flashlight rolled down the slope, coming to rest somewhere near the child’s feet.
“What do you see?” the voice asked.
“What are you talking about?” I closed my eyes.

I remember hearing a reply along the lines of “Just look at it. Tell me what you see,” but my own screams of frustration drowned it out.

I was mumbling like a maniac when the voice told me, calmly, “Rest for a second, I’ll get it.” The statement took a second to settle in, at which point I closed my eyes tight.

“Steve, just do it please. Please, just get it open please,” I whimpered. “Just get me out of here.” My voice was beginning to get louder. “Steve, god dammit, open the fucking wooden door.” I opened my eyes for a split second to see nothing but black hair, dangling in front of my face, a small glint of light hidden in the mess of tangles. I slammed my eyes shut and screamed with every ounce of energy I had, “Open the fucking do-“ The door behind me gave way, and I fell onto the dirt, taking in a breath of fresh air. My eyes were still closed, but the first thing that I did was scramble to find the cellar door and close it. Once I had done that, I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.

I saw the barn in front of me, illuminated by the headlights of the car. My head was pulsing with pain. I was covered in dirt and liquids that I didn’t even care to know the origin of. My knee was, at the very least, dislocated. But despite all of that, I was out of the tunnel. I took a deep breath, buried my head in my hands, and said “Steve, why didn’t you just fucking open the door?”

I waited for a response, but none came. “Steve, seriously,” I began, “I was fucking clawing, screaming for my life,” I said as I looked behind me. My stomach must have been on the verge of falling out of me at this point, because it shifted again. The only thing behind me was the large mass of bushes that I had seen while examining the perimeter or the building. I was angry. “Steve, this is not the fucking time. Come out of the fucking bushes.” I was getting ready to stand up when I heard a yell from the front of the building.

A flashlight bobbed up and down in the semi-darkness. Steve was running into the open door of the structure, yelling my name and telling me not to worry. I must have lost consciousness at that point. When I woke up, Steve was standing over me, desperately trying to wake me up. His words were almost incoherent, at least to my ears.

He helped me to my feet and began to walk me to the car. As we walked away, I saw my flashlight sitting just outside the cellar door, the light was fading.

Steve brought me back to the car and then drove me to the nearest hospital. I fell asleep, but he told me that he drove around for an hour before he found a main road. I don’t think I ever told him the whole story. I believe he thinks that I was just injured from the fall. He never really asked about it, and we didn’t stay in contact for much longer. It’s not like we deliberately parted ways, we just sort of stopped hanging out after that trip and went our separate ways.

I have never been able to fully understand what happened that night. There are many things that I can explain away as being hallucinations, but there are still many things that don’t make sense. The showerheads were there and they were leaking something. The door was real, the tunnel was real. Most everything else can be semi-rationalized if I can convince myself that I had a very bad concussion, a very, very bad concussion. But the one thing that I couldn’t have imagined was that cellar door was locked, and then it suddenly wasn’t.

I am still as skeptical as I have ever been, but I believe in what happened to me at The Showers. I’m not a hermit or a social retard because of this. I drink a lot, but I am still functional. But, I will never return to Nebraska; no one will ever be able to convince me otherwise. I don’t watch horror movies either; there is absolutely nothing entertaining about being so desperately scared. That’s it, really. There is no typical ending for my story. I was changed by my experience, yeah. But, there is no way to change anything about it or “fight back” against it. I can’t even convince myself that I wasn’t just seeing things. Believe me; I’ve been trying for years.

Prior to this, there was really no way to find any information on The Showers. The legend didn’t extend outside the classroom of Mr. Mays. No one told stories like this to keep children away from a certain place or to scare them; it just wasn’t known. I guess that’s really the point of this whole story. I want people to know, first hand, what this place is like. Maybe it is a drunk’s rationale, or the kid inside me wanting to spread these kinds of stories again. I don’t know; I don’t care. But, it’s out there now, for people to mold and warp to their needs. Most importantly, it’s finally out of my head.

It’s getting late and I’m getting another drink. Cheers.
 
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Topic: Off-topic / (Sorry, my computer screwed up last night) The Showers, PART 1, WARNING: LONG (Creepypasta Fridays #4)

Every area in all parts of the world has those area-specific Urban Legends that just refuse to die. Whether the stories are about a haunted asylum on the outskirts of the city, a creature that lives in the nearby woods, or a ghost that haunts a lonely stretch of road outside of town, there is always a common thread within the tales; no one has ever been to these places, seen the creatures, or witnessed any hauntings with their own eyes.

There are members of every generation who will proclaim that they “know someone whose brother’s best friend’s sister went to that haunted house with thirteen floors that used real blood and snakes and spiders and is so scary that no one has ever made it all the way through.” Those same people will swear by these stories without ever being able to provide a shred of evidence or a name of someone who could provide proof of the claims simply because “everyone around here knows that it’s a true story. The storytellers eventually pass the tales onto their children, who modify them just enough to keep up with changing times, and the cycle continues.

I’m as skeptical as anyone when it comes to these stories, seeing as I was like a junkie when I was younger, constantly searching for more terrifying stories about whatever area of the country I was living in at the time. I made up and spread stories about haunted pizza parlors in New York, my “cousin’s” encounter with the Jersey Devil, or how my “grandfather” encountered a feral, human-like demon creature in the woods of Colorado. I even broke the one rule with these stories by putting myself in them; this took guts, in hindsight, because I had to make sure that I always told them the same way. Surprisingly, no one ever called my bluff.

I like to think that I have had some wonderful contributions to various urban legends around the Midwest and northeastern states; I moved around a lot. There was always a surge of joy whenever I would wander the halls at school and hear one of my classmates retelling my stories to another one of their friends, adding little bits here and there like a massive game of telephone. I knew, of course, that the stories were complete fiction, but I stood my ground whenever someone asked me about them; I would even manage to act a little bit, speaking with a shaky voice or looking scared when I would recount a situation that I supposedly experienced myself.

I suppose this aspect of my childhood has led to my current predicament which I will recount, in full, for the internet to take from it what they will. I have laid this little introduction out as sort of a disclaimer, aimed particularly at those who will call my story into question. I have been like the boy who cried wolf for years, but I assure you with every ounce of honesty and integrity that I have that this time, the wolf is real.

From my introduction, it is probably apparent that I moved around the country quite a bit in my middle and high school years. Neither of my parents had anything to do with any branch of the armed forces; they simply didn’t tend to hang around any given place for too long. I suppose it had some sort of effect on me, but I wasn’t hurt by it or anything of the sort. Growing up, I was a complete ham. I made friends very easily, was often the class clown, and because of that, was often disliked by my teachers. Again, this was never an issue, as I was usually in another state by the time the next semester rolled around.

My friendships were often fleeting, as were any positive relationships that I ever had with my teachers. Because of the events that followed, my memory of one teacher in particular is probably slightly skewed, but I will attempt to give the least biased version of our friendship that I can.

Mr. Mays was one of my social studies teachers in the early years of my high school experience. Being older now, I can understand how horrible children are to deal with around that age, and I respect him to no ends for the way that he was able to connect with his students. He seemed like one of us; he talked like us, made pop-culture references that were current, listened to cool music, and sometimes, he would even say “hell” or “damn” while he was giving a passionate lecture about Native American history or something like that. A teacher that swore, even a little bit, was the epitome of cool to a freshman in high school.
My memories of Mr. Mays mostly stem from the way that he really got into anything that he was doing. The instance that is still very vivid in my mind was, of course, around Halloween of my sophomore year. Mr. Mays had the typical teacher decorations around the classroom, smiling jack-o-lanterns and black cat cartoons, typical and boring in the minds of egotistic high-school students.

However, on the 31st of October, when most other teachers were rolling their eyes at the fact that teenagers still took dressing up in costumes on Halloween seriously, Mr. Mays took the whole “cool teacher” thing to a new level.
We walked into the classroom and were surprised to find the blinds drawn, sheets over the smaller windows, candles lighting the room, and a single, frowning jack-o-lantern sitting on a stool in front of the desks. Mr. Mays sat at his desk, just watching the students come into class and take their seats. He didn’t have to ask anyone to be quiet because the moment everyone walked into the room, they were either too excited to care about petty conversations, or too confused to bother with them . The students took their seats as Mr. Mays began his lecture. He spoke quietly to set the mood, and took a seat on a chair, right next to the jack-o-lantern in the center of the room.

“Today is probably my favorite day of the year, class,” he said, in a monotonous voice. “Halloween is my favorite holiday, and I want to share with you exactly why I love it so much.” One girl raised her hand with a concerned look on her face. “I’m pushing the due date for your papers to next Tuesday,” said Mr. Mays, without bothering to look at the girl, who slowly put her hand down, looking around at the other students with a hint of embarrassment. The class erupted in quiet cheers and Mr. Mays waited for the inevitable silence. He began his story immediately after the class had calmed down.

I will attempt to recreate the amazing story that Mr. Mays told the class that day. The way in which he told this story rendered the horror-junkies speechless and the rest of the class terrified. The same girl that had raised her hand to ask about the paper was holding her knees to her chest by the end of it, a look of terror on her face.

The important thing to know was what the story was about, the specifics slip my mind now and aren’t too relevant. I’ll try to recount the parts of the story that matter the most, but don’t hold me to it. Basically, Mr. Mays and his friends set out on a road trip around the country after graduating from college. They took a truck, loaded it with camping gear, and set out to sight-see for the entire summer. The group went from the Poconos in New Jersey, down to the coasts of Florida, New Orleans to California and up to Washington. From there, they went to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado and then back home to New York. This concept of the freedom to travel anywhere had the entire class hooked in an instant; Mr. Mays was the coolest teacher ever, in my eyes.

Being adventurous college kids, the group didn’t bring a map. There were no time constraints, so they just kind of drove in the general direction that they wanted to go and eventually found a town to stay in or someplace that looked interesting. He told us that after spending a week in Colorado, he and his friends had to travel through miles and miles of corn, plains, and more corn. He assumed that they were in either Nebraska or Kansas when they decided to pool their extra cash and stay in a hotel for a night. They settled into a motel in some town that Mr. Mays could barely remember the name of when one of his friends realized that they were somewhere near his grandfather’s farm. He wasn’t entirely sure where it was, but being adventurous college kids, they decided to get a quick refund from the motel and try to contact the friend’s grandpa.
They were unable to get ahold of the grandpa on the phone, so the group figured it would be fun to just show up. Mr. Mays’ friend was adamant that his grandparents would take them in and feed them without a moment of hesitation. So, the group set out with an hour of sunlight, seeking the salvation of a comfortable house to stay in.

In Kansas, or Nebraska, wherever it may have been, there aren’t a whole lot of natural markers that could guide lost travelers; any directions given to someone who didn’t live around the area basically amounted to “go up a couple of miles to the corn, take a right and go down a dirt road to the other corn; there should be some wheat on your right.” So, as is the case in most scary stories, the group got lost. Never wanting to admit defeat, they drove into the night, making wrong turns every five minutes until they found themselves on a wooded road that Mr. May’s friend was certain that his grandparents lived off of.

Mr. Mays described the road as basically a dark path to hell. I wasn’t entirely sure how true this was, because he got very excited and a bit ridiculous with his explanations of the “trees that almost tried to grab the car,” and “the red eyes of countless animals looking at them from the darkness.” Regardless, the typical horror tropes worked on most of the class; everyone was terrified.

So the group of guys drove on this dark road for about fifteen minutes before they came to a clearing and a small building with lights in it, and what seemed to be a silo. They figured that, at the very least, the people who lived here would be able to help them find where the guy’s grandparents lived; the whole idea of “everyone knows everyone in these hick parts of the country,” fueled this hope. They pulled the car up near the building, realizing when they were out of the car that it appeared to be like the kind of places where one would store a whole bunch of chickens, not a home. Still, the lights were on, so they figured they would give it a try.

They approached the building as a group, looking in the semi-open sliding door to find a big, empty room. Hanging, florescent lights lit the room like it was daytime, and they couldn’t see a soul. There were no cars, but one of Mr. Mays’ friends was convinced he’d seen someone as they pulled up, so they decided to go inside and see if there was an office or something where someone might still be working. Why else would they have this huge place lit up like that?
There were no doors on the inside of the building; again, it was just a giant, empty hall. So, the group roamed around the property and over towards the silo. As they got closer, they noticed what appeared to be a cellar door. At this point, I remember Mr. Mays telling the entire class to learn from his idiocy. He told us that he hadn’t seen many horror movies before that time, and didn’t think twice about approaching a creepy cellar door in the middle of a dark, scary, foreign place. He said that approaching that door was one of his biggest regrets.

Mr. Mays let the whole class know that he was going to tell us as much as he deemed appropriate about the experience. He felt that we were mature enough to handle it, but advised anyone that was squeamish to leave class early. Several students quietly gathered their things and walked out the door, a couple of them being stoners who saw this as an opportunity to smoke behind the school before their next class. I didn’t even give the announcement a second thought. Like I said, I was and am a sucker for this kind of stuff, and Mr. Mays was telling a story better than anything I had ever conjured up. I wanted to learn from this guy, even though I didn’t believe much of the story.

After the class had thinned a bit, Mr. Mays continued with the story. He told the remaining few that he and his friends opened that cellar door, releasing a smell that he only described as “the most putrid thing my senses have ever experienced.” The group was no longer concerned with finding the owners of the property, but was now set on finding the source of that smell. They went down the steps into the cellar, which was lit by single bulbs spaced sporadically along the ceiling of a long hallway. No one spoke, things had gotten too strange. The walls were lined with metal sheeting, similar to the roofing on farms. The hallway itself was crooked and the ceilings constantly lowered and rose, like a tunnel that was hastily dug and then never touched up. There were sections where the boys had to almost crouch in order to pass.

The worst part, Mr. Mays told us, was that the light bulbs continuously flickered, sometimes acting like a strobe light and making it very difficult to move through the winding and unstable hallways. In hindsight, he was certain that his mind was playing tricks on him, but he remembered seeing flashes of things that couldn’t be there. He said that when you are that focused on sometime, or if you are that nervous, your mind can do that to you; it can simply revolt, showing you things or people that aren’t there. He continued to describe the hallway, and I was on the edge of my seat. The halls were windy and seemed to go on forever; Mr. Mays guessed that they were somewhere under the creepy forest they had driven through when they found a door, but he couldn’t be sure.
He said that they came upon a door after walking for what felt like a mile. It was simple and wooden, but it looked like it belonged outside of a suburban home. It had a nice design, seemed to be freshly painted red, and had a very nice knob and knocker on it. It was a door that belongs at the entrance to a nice house, not one that would be sitting in a dirt tunnel in the middle of nowhere. His friend walked towards the door, moving carefully because of the flashing light bulb and increasingly uncertainty about the stability of the surrounding “walls.” He turned to the group, the rest of which were nervous at the very least, and attempted to lighten the mood with a laugh before he said “I should probably knock first.”
Mr. Mays’ friend grabbed the steel knocker and hit it against the door several times, mockingly, but quietly uttering, “is anyone home?” The group waited about thirty seconds before their tension broke. The guy next to the door shrugged his shoulders and went to walk back to his friends, but as he did, the light bulb between them surged and exploded. The boys shielded their eyes and looked back to their lone friend by the door. As he lowered his hands, one of the metal sheets of the makeshift roof dropped. The edge of the sheet fell directly on the boy’s forehead, slicing it open, and sending a wave of blood down his face. The impact apparently knocked him out, and he fell back against the door, knocking it open in the process.

The entirety of the group rushed through the dim light to their friend, barely noticing the seemingly pitch black room that now lay before them. Mr. Mays was the first to make it to his friend’s side. He lifted the guy’s head into his arms, immediately taking off his jacket and putting it over his forehead to attempt to stop the bleeding. Once the group had calmed down, Mr. Mays noticed that the arm that had been bracing his friend’s head was soaking wet. He was confused about this, and was attempting to sort it out when one of his friends started talking. He said something along the lines of “the lights; we have to go,” when Mr. Mays took notice.

“You know when you turn off a light,” he told the class, “and everything is almost pitch-black, except the light of the bulb dying out or cooling down? It was like that, but there were so many of them. At least twenty light bulbs had lit the room seconds ago, and now only looked like little stars in the darkness. That was definitely terrifying, but that wasn’t the scariest thing.”

There was still a very dim light coming from the hallway behind them, and though it was weak, it lit the room up just enough to see the shape of tens of people standing less than ten feet in front of them. Mr. Mays’ friend went to say something else as one of the bulbs to their right flickered to life.

Let me interrupt at this point and say that Mr. Mays was a generally playful guy. He had that tone of voice that makes you want to respond. Basically, he could say “let’s go jump off of a cliff, guys,” and you would want to respond with “alright Mr. Mays, show us the way!” That is a ridiculous statement, but it gets the point across. He was a charismatic guy. The whole story up to this point had been told like a campfire story. He had the voice inflections of someone attempting to be mysterious and scary, which worked, but was noticeable. At this point in his tale, I recall that changing completely. He was no longer attempting to spook anyone; I could tell that this section was difficult for him. Either he was a very good actor, or it was really a terrifying memory for him to relive.

He told us that the light bulb came to life, and illuminated the group of people in front of him. In the dim light, he could see children, at least twenty of them in just the visible light. They were all dressed in nightgowns that looked to be tattered and torn, stained dark with something. Their hair was long; every single one of them looked like they had not had a haircut since birth. Some of the children were almost completely obscured by the length of it; every single one of them didn’t appear to have seen a shower or nice bath in their entire life.
Mr. Mays told us that the most terrifying part of the whole thing was that none of the children were moving. They were all standing, staring, most of them only visible from the faint light reflecting off of their eyes. His whole group was paralyzed with fear for several seconds, when they heard what sounded like an animal in the distance yelping. The way it was described was like the sound of a dog crying, multiplied by ten. This spurred the group to life, just as the children began to step forward. His friends grabbed the injured one and lifted him out of the room and into the hallway in an instant. Mr. Mays took another second to move, and had difficulty finding his bearings. He reached to his left in an attempt to find a wall to lean against, and ended up finding a handle, then pulled hard, never losing his vision on the children.

He bolted for the door right as he noticed what he had grabbed on to. A showerhead protruded from a cement wall, reaching maybe a foot into the room. There was something leaking from it, but it was too dim to tell what it was. He realized that it had been leaking onto him, but he didn’t care. There were now children stammering towards him as an animal cried in the distance and his friend was seriously injured. As he left the room, he made a point to emphasize that he could make out several more shower heads on the wall near the single, dim light bulb.

“This is why I call them ‘The Showers,’” Mr. Mays told the class. I was transfixed, sitting as far forward as my desk would allow, bracing for more.
“I slammed the red door behind me,” he said, ”and ran through that hallway faster than I have ever run before or since. I made it back to the car, and we drove out of there like a bat out of hell.” (A couple of students snickered at his use of the word “hell.”) “So, when you’re out trick r’ treating tonight, make sure that you know exactly where you are headed, and don’t go out to any abandoned farmhouses. I mean, there aren’t many around here, but you’re all smart kids, except Jerry.” The class laughed and the mood lightened as the bell rang for passing period.

Mr. Mays turned the light on and thanked everyone for listening, reminded them about the paper due next week, and told us to have a safe and Happy Halloween. Students all around me were abuzz with theories about the story they had just heard.

“I bet it was some sort of crazy Nazi hideout,” said one girl.
“I think they were all ghost babies that were killed by a dog,” said another.
I couldn’t theorize in the slightest; I was still caught up in the moment. The way that Mr. Mays had told that story and the detail that he included in it, left me feeling like we didn’t get the whole story.

A couple days later, I stayed after class and asked him about how it really ended and what happened to his friend. He laughed and said that his friend was fine and that it was honestly (he whispered this part), “probably due to some of the drugs they were on at the time.” Mr. Mays winked at me as if to say, “don’t tell anyone about the drugs bit, kid,” and I smiled and left.

I lived in that town for another couple months and then was rapidly moved halfway across the country to Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

I twisted the story around and told it around campfires as I got older, and it was always a hit, but I always changed the ending, letting the friend die of blood loss or from being dragged away by the children.

It wasn’t until college that I got a chance to talk to Mr. Mays again.
I went to college in northern New York, not for any reasons associated with this story. College was a fun time for me; I continued being the same ham that I had always been. It wasn’t until sometime around my junior year that I ran into Mr. Mays at a bar that I frequented.

Initially, I couldn’t be sure that the person I saw laying with his head buried in his arm at the bar was Mr. Mays. The only trait that grabbed my attention was a sweater that he used to wear on his birthday during class. The shirt simply read: “I’m the birthday boy!”

I told my group of friends to grab a table and that I would join them in a second, then walked over to the man at the bar. “Mr. Mays?” I said, and the man looked up.

The man took a second too look at my face before he smiled, put a hand on my shoulder, and said, “hey there, son! How have you been?” I could smell some strong whiskey on his breath, and his cheeks were flushed. The look in his eyes told me that he was three sheets to the wind and probably had no idea who I was.

“Mr. Mays, its Jack. I was a student of yours for a couple semesters about six or so years ago.” His face changed a bit, and a genuine look of recognition set in.
He took a calmer tone, smiled, and said, “How’ve you been, Jack?”

We talked for a solid twenty minutes. I told him what I had been doing for the last several years, and he told me. Apparently he was still teaching at the same school doing “the same old shtick,” as he called it. I asked if everything was alright, and he said that they were as good as they ever have been or were ever going to get.

It took me a while to realize that I was an adult that was having a conversation with another adult.

Every time I had spoken to Mr. Mays previously, I had been in the student/teacher relationship; but now, I was just a guy having a drink with a friend at the bar.

My friends eventually left, and I continued to drink with Mr. Mays. He told me all about his divorce and his kids, things that I never would have asked or cared about previously. But now, I cared; he was a real person to me, not just an idol anymore. This was a guy who had real problems, not the infallible teacher that I once thought he was.

It had been several hours before I even brought up his story about “The Showers.” I told him all about my history with urban legends and scary stories, and he just laughed. When I mentioned the story that he had told us years ago, he almost seemed uncomfortable. He finished his whiskey, signaled for another, and then turned to me and got very serious.

“Listen Jack, I don’t know why I kept telling that story, year after year.” His words were slurred, or my hearing was messed up; we were both sufficiently blitzed at this point. “That was what my therapist told me to do when I was younger. I had to tell people it, to come to grips with it, or some shit.” He took a big swig of his drink.
“Wait, your therapist?” I said.
Mr. Mays laughed heartily and looked at me, “of course, Jack. You think that something like that wouldn’t fuck a person up?”
I was confused, but smiled nonetheless. Things had just gotten very strange.
“But, I mean, you said you were all on drugs or something, right? No one was too terribly hurt. You were all okay, right?”
He got almost cartoonish with his sadness in the next several seconds. “Of course we didn’t, Jack. Why do you think I’m here right now?”
I was puzzled, quickly filled with a thousand questions that I wanted to ask him, but I let him carry on.

“Tim fuckin’, he didn’t make it, Jack,” he laughed; his laugh turned suddenly to tears. “Fucking took him, they did. I don’t even know. Cops told us we were just drunk, that he wandered off and got taken by the wildlife. He didn’t know. He didn’t see it, Jack.”

I was absolutely stone-faced at this point. Mr. Mays was carrying along like I knew the actual story, but I didn’t. His friend disappeared. I didn’t know.
“I wish they’d have found the body, though. Then we could have shown them,” he sighed. “That’s a bad place, Jack. I don’t know anything else to say. It’s a bad place.”

He carried on for a couple minutes more about his friend and the fun that they had before they went on that trip, and I let him talk. It was only a few minutes later that his phone rang.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he whispered into the phone. “I’ll be out in a second. I l-“ he gagged. “-ove you, baby.” The person on the other end hung up the phone, and Mr. Mays got up to leave.
“It’s been nice seeing you, Jackie. You’ve gotta good head on your shoulders, boy. Make sure you use it.” He began to walk out of the bar.
“Mr. Mays!” I yelled after him.
“Yeah, Jack?” he turned back towards me.
“Where’d you say all that showers business took place?”
“Where? Hell, didn’t I mention it? It’s somewhere outside Broken Bow, Nebraska. Fucking Hell on Earth, if you ask me.”

Mr. Mays walked out of the bar after waving to me, running into the wall before eventually finding the door.

That was the last time I would see him. I’d never be able to tell him the impact that he had on my life, or rather, the impact that his story had on me. He’d never know about the trip we took after graduation, almost mimicking the one he and his friends had made. He would never know that the things he saw at that place were real. Why? Well, he died about a month later. His liver failed on him. It’s alright though, because his family was with him in the hospital room. He got to die around people that cared about him, and that is all I can ask for a man like that.

I experienced that place too, several years later. That is where my story turns. The following is the story of how I came to find “The Showers,” and why I will never, ever go anywhere near Nebraska ever again. I’ll finish this story when I’m sober. The memory is clear enough.
 
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Topic: Off-topic / (Im late again) The Disappearance of Ashley, Kansas (Creepypasta Fridays #3)

Sometime during the night of August 16th, 1952, the small town of Ashley, Kansas ceased to exist. At 3:28am on August 17th, 1952, a magnitude 7.9 earthquake was measured by the United States Geological Survey. The earthquake itself was felt throughout the state and most of the midwest. The epicenter was determined to be directly under Ashley, Kansas. When state law enforcement arrived at what should have been the outskirts of the farming community, they found a smoldering, burning fissure in the Earth in the earth measuring 1000 yards in length and approximately 500 yards in width. The depth of the fissure was never determined. After twelve days, the state-wide and local search for the missing 679 residents of Ashley, Kansas, was called off by the Kansas State Government at 9:15pm on the night of August 29th, 1952. All 679 residents were assumed to be dead. At 2:27am on August 30th, 1952, a magnitude 7.5 earthquake was measured by the United States Geological Survey. The epicenter was situated under what used to be the location of Ashley, Kansas. When law enforcement investigated at 5:32am, they reported that the fissure in the Earth had closed.
In the eight days leading up to the disappearance of the town and its 679 residents, bizarre and unexplainable events were reported by dozens of residents in Ashley, Kansas and law enforcement from the surrounding area.
On the evening of August 8th, 1952, at 7:13pm, a resident by the name of Gabriel Johnathan reported a strange sight in the sky above Ashley. The town itself, having no official branch of law enforcement, called into the police station of the neighboring town of Hays. Gabriel reported what appeared to be a “small, black opening in the sky.” Within the next fifteen minutes, the Hays police station became overwhelmed with dozens of phone calls all reporting the same phenomenon. The phenomenon was never reported by any neighboring communities. A decision was made to send a trooper to Ashley to investigate the matter the following morning.
At 7:54 am on the morning of August 9th, 1952, Hays Police Officer Allan Mace radioed the Hays Police Station. He reported that, despite following the one way road leading into Ashley, he had become lost. According to his report, the road “continued along its normal path, but somehow ended up back in Hays.” Officer Mace went on to add that the road never curved, or bent in any direction. At 9:15am, seven of the town’s 10 police cars were sent to investigate the situation, and all members of the team came to the same conclusion. The only road leading into Ashley stopped leading into Ashley, but instead led back to Hays. Phone calls continued to pour into the Hays Police Station, all reporting that the black opening in the sky continued to grow in size. All callers were advised to remain inside, and to not travel outside unless absolutely necessary. At 8:17pm, Mrs. Elaine Kantor reported her neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Milton, and their two children, Jeffery and Brooke, missing. According to Mrs. Kantor’s phone call, the Milton’s attempted to leave town in their family car earlier in the evening. They never returned. Law enforcement officals from Hays never reported the car, or individuals, coming up the one way road.
At 7:38am on the morning of August 10th, 1952, phone calls from Ashley into the Hays Police Station reported that the town was in total darkness. The sun had never risen. At 10:15am, at the request of Hays Law Enforcement, a helicopter from Topeka, Kansas flew over the region in which Ashley, Kansas stood. The town was never observed from air.
At 12:43pm on the afternoon of August 11th, 1952, Ms. Phoebe Danielewski called into the Hays Police Station. She reported that her daugter Erica had begun to have conversions with her father, who died three years prior in a drunk driving accident. To add to her concern, Ms. Danielewski reported that Erica was attempting to go outside into the dark, to “join them.” Over the course of the next twelve hours, a reported 329 phone calls were placed into the Hays Police Station all describing similar phenomenon with the children of the town.
The following morning of August 12th, 1952, the sitation became dire. During the middle of the night, all 217 children in the town of Ashley, Kansas disappeared. A reported 421 phone calls were placed into the Hays Police Department. Unable to be of any useful assistance, Hays Law Enforcement instructed all callers to remain inside and to avoid any and all attempts at finding the missing children.
At 5:19pm on the evening August 13th, 1952, Ashley elderly man Scott Luntz reporting a growing, distant fire to the south. According to his description, the fire seemed to turn the distant black into “bright red and orange [that] seemed to extend high into the sky.” Throughout the rest of the day, calls continued in, stating that the fire, in addition to moving north, now seemed to “come out of the black sky.” No fire was ever witnessed by any of the neighboring communities or law enforcement officials.
The reports continued until 12:09am on the morning of August 14th, 1952. The last phone call, placed by a Mr. Benjamin Endicott, reported that the fire in the sky had grown so intense that it began to appear as daytime over the town. The phone call ended abruptly: (FROM THE PHONECALL PLACED BY BENJAMIN SHERMAN ENDICOTT)
Benjamin: Just hold on….wait…
(CONTINUED SILENCE)
Benjamin (con’t): Yeah, yeah I see something. It’s to the south. It looks like-
[END PHONECALL]
The next phone call wouldn’t be placed until the following evening.
The following is the entire transcript of the final phonecall to be received by the Hays Police Department out of the town of Ashley, Kansas. It was placed at 9:46pm on the evening of August 15th, 1952. In this recorded phonecall, the officer on duty is Officer Peter Welsch. The caller has been identified as Ms. April Foster.
[BEGIN PHONECALL]
Officer Welsch: Hays Police Department.
(Muffled static).
Officer Welsch: Hello?
Foster: YES…yes, hello?
Officer Welsch: Ma’am, who am I speaking with.
Foster: My name is April, April Foster. (Coughs) Please, sir. Please help me.
Officer Welsch: What is happening, ma’am?
Foster: Last night….last night they came back.
Officer Welsch: Ma’am, I’m going to need you to -
Foster: LAST NIGHT THEY CAME BACK! (Cries)
Officer Welsch: Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down, and speak clearly. What happened? Who came back?
Foster: (Sobbing). Everyone.
Officer Welsch: Everyone?
Foster: They all came in the fire.
Officer Welsch: What do you mean everyone?
Foster: My son…..I saw my son last night. He was walking… he was walking down the street. He was burned. Jesus Christ HE WAS BURNED.
Officer Welsch: Ma’am I -
Foster: He died last year. I raised him since he was a baby….it was just me and him. I told him to watch for cars when he rode his bike. But he never wanted to listen.
Officer Welsch: Ma’am, what you’re saying isn’t making any sense. You said everyone came back?
Foster: ARE YOU FUCKING LISTENING TO ME? EVERYONE. Everyone came back. Everyone who died, or went missing, they’re back. And they’re looking for US! (Cries). He…he said: “Mommy, I’m okay now! See, I can walk again! Where are you, Mommy? I want to see you!”(Sobs).
Officer Welsch: ….Ma’am, where are you now? Are you safe?
Foster: I’m hiding. Just like everyone else. We saw them coming through the fields….and….some people opened their doors for them. God, the SCREAMING. (Pause). I don’t know what happened to them. But their houses caught fire and they….caved in. I have my curtains drawn. I’m hiding in the closet right now and- (Silence).
Officer Welsch: Ma’am, is everything alright, are you okay?
Foster: (Silence).
Officer Welsh: Ma’am?
Foster: (Glass Breaking). Oh…oh my God.
Officer Welsh: Ma’am?
Foster: Something just came in. (Muffled cries).
Officer Welsch: Ma’am, stay as quiet as you can. Don’t make a sound.
Foster: (Muffled: “Mommy…..mommy?”). (Sobbing). He came inside.
Officer Welsch: Stay absolutely still. Don’t leave.
Foster: (Sound of muffled footsteps. Muffled: “Mommy? Mommy, where are you hiding?”)
Officer Welsch: Stay quiet.
Foster: (Sound of heavy footsteps. Laughter. Muffled: “I found you, MOMMY!”) (Indiscernable screaming and noise).
Officer Welsch: Ma’am? MA’AM??
[End phonecall].
The following morning, at 6:55am, the law enforcement officals of the Hays Police Department arrived at the location of Ashley, Kansas. A smoldering, burning fissure in the Earth was all that remained.

~
One of the most terrifying creepypastas ive read, what did you guys think?

 
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Topic: Off-topic / Happy Puppet Syndrome (Creepypasta fridays #2, I know im a little late....)

It was simple, we thought. Take a few chromosomes, slice them up, put them over there, and hey, perfect human being. I’m still not sure what went wrong. Maybe a miscalculation? A misprocedure? Or maybe something beyond our control. Who knows?

We (a few of my psychologist colleagues and I) were intrigued by human emotion. Anger, despair, euphoria. Was it possible to lock the mind into one emotion? To lock it into a euphoric state so that no sadness or anger would cloud its thought? Theoretically, yes.

I won’t describe the procedures of our experiments to you. Both because I wouldn’t want you to repeat them but also I fear I will go mad if I have to recount them. The terrible things we did. We were ambitious, youthful, nothing could stop us, and no one could tell us we were wrong. All I will tell is that we got ahold of a few stem cells, nurtured them into fetuses, and tampered ever so slightly with the genetics. The experiment was called “The Angel Man Project” and the goal was to create a being which felt only happiness. But something went wrong. Terribly wrong.

Half of the test subjects died unexpectedly, without warning and without cause. The remaining half were mostly born hideously distorted. Three were born well. Perfect, we thought. A human with mental capability beyond any other due to its locked euphoric state.

They were perfectly normal up to eighteen months. That’s when the first symptoms appeared. Lack of balance, trouble sleeping and eating, low responsiveness. We all panicked on the inside, of course, but on the outside we remained calm and continued the project. We should have ended there. We should have taken those damned subjects and euthanized them and burned them and closed the lab. But we continued.

Things only got worse. The subject’s movements became increasingly sporadic and they still could not utter words, although they could laugh and did so often. Much too often. Not happy laughter, but quiet, almost nervous laughing, nearly constant. No matter how much pain was inflicted on the subject it merely stared at you and laughed, as if it were mocking you, calling your attempts to harm it futile.

We expected the subject’s to have extra learning capabilities. Quite the opposite occurred. Their mental development was severely delayed. They couldn’t pay attention to something for more than a few minutes before lapsing into a laughing fit. But we continued, hoping that these symptoms would clear up as the children got older. We gave a name to the symptoms. “Happy Puppet Syndrome”, because the mindless movements of the children made it seem like they were puppets on strings.

Five years into the project we realized there was no hope. We could no longer stand the incessant laughing of these children; as if they knew something we did not, as if some kind of joke passed between them. To look at a child and to see it twitch sporadically and laugh excessively is a haunting thing. Two of my colleagues had already quit because they could not stand it. I never heard from them afterwards. They are most likely dead.

The children had not talked for five years. Only laughed their damned laugh. We went in to give them breakfast and they stared at us with their huge eyes, twitching, giggling, and saying nothing. We lay the meal in front of them and left. The meal was laced with toxins that would silently and painlessly kill the subjects. It was a painful thing to do, but it had to be done. However, it would not be that easy.

As a friend of mine set a tray of food down in front of one of the boys, the laughing stopped. The boy looked up at my friend, his eyes suddenly dark, dead serious, the laughing gone.

They continued to stare at him and twitch for a while. My friend was in shock and would not move. My colleagues and I stood with pen and notepad ready to take notes. Suddenly, my friend fell to his knees, grasping his head and yelling furiously. He appeared to be in tremendous pain. My colleagues and I were so surprised by this we could do nothing but sit and watch. My friend collapsed to the floor, yelling curses. He jerked violently a few times, and then went limp.

I held back the urge to be sick, more successfully than a few of my colleagues. Something about this was not normal. A dark presence seemed to tower over us. We immediately sealed the entrance. The boy stopped, looked at the door, and laughed. He fell to the floor, twitching and rolling about laughing insanely. The two others did the same. After a few minutes the fit ceased, and they stood up, still twitching, still giggling.

The lights went out. I heard crashes, glass shattering, screams. The most terrifying thing of all were the haunting whispers, coupled with the quiet laughing. When the lights went back on, the subjects were gone. Two of my colleagues lay unconscious beside me, their bodies twisted at odd angles, blood trickling from their drooping mouths. At first they appeared to be dead. They showed no vital signs. But as I leaned in, I could hear them laughing, ever so slightly. I went over to examine my friend. No pulse, no breathing, but he continued to laugh quietly.

Although the subjects had gone, I still felt as if something were watching me, something that was just at the edge of my vision but that I would never be able to see.

Me and one remaining colleague closed everything down immediately. Before leaving we destroyed our research and locked and barricaded the lab. I lost communication with my colleagues. I presume they are dead.

I still feel like I am watched. I still hear the laughing, the whispering, in my dreams and sometimes when I am awake. When I do, I run. I get up and I leave wherever I am. I’m not able to stay in the same place for more than a few days because of this.

It spread. Other children were seen with similar symptoms. I have no idea how it spread, it shouldn’t be something that spreads. Somebody somewhere made something up about disjunction of the 15th chromosome, and that kept the people happy and in the dark, for now. The disease was coined “Angelman Syndrome”. So far the spawn are not dangerous. But I know the originals still lurk somewhere.

I know they are coming for me. I know they will find me. I accept this. It is what I get for attempting to tamper with nature. I leave this letter here as a warning. They are coming for you, too. They are coming for all of us. If ever you hear whispering, laughing, at the edge of your hearing, run. If ever you feel as if something stands right at the edge of your sight, but you cannot look at it, run.

Also, I warn you this. One: do not tamper with what is not yours. Two: Even Angels can be Demons in disguise. And three: Do not come for me. I am as good as dead.


The following manuscript was found in an abandoned and hidden laboratory discovered deep in an Alaskan forest. The laboratory consisted of an observation room and a containment room. The containment room was barricaded and locked, and the entire lab seemed to have caught fire at one point. Traces of blood were found after the containment room was breached, and a window was shattered. The exact nature of this lab is yet undiscovered.

~
9/10 sent chills down my spine

 
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Topic: Off-topic / Killed for texting during a movie!?

Yesterday afternoon January 13th, 71 year old retired Tampa Bay police officer Curtis Reeves, shot and killed Chad Oulson for texting on his cell phone at a movie theater.

The victim a 43 year old family man with his wife seeing the film ironically… Lone Survivor. The film hadnt even started yet though, the previews were still ongoing, the lights had not come down, he was texting the babysitter for his 3 year old daughter, Reeves got upset and rather than just pleasantly settling this, going to the manager, maybe coming to talk about it, Reeves takes out a .38 caliber pistol and shoots him dead, the bullet also hit the wife who is in the hospital tonight with non critical injuries.

Oulson is dead, Reeves under arrest for 2nd degree homicide. How does this even happen?! I’ve been to the movie theater hundreds of times in my life, in fact im going tonight to see Wolf On Wall Street, heard its a good movie and very excited about that. And I hope nobody in the theater is going to text or annoy me because that will become an unpleasant experience for sure. But so unpleasant that I need to take out a weapon and murder them? I could understand getting into a fight or an argument. But really, your going to put him in the ground over a stupid small little problem, an inconvenience that only lasts a few moments.

This is inexcusable and unjustifiable on anyones part, led alone by someone who used to be a police officer and should certainly know better. Now perhaps the victim here had a total reasonable excuse to be using a cell phone, he was texting the babysitter, maybe there was an emergency with the daughter back home. He doesnt know until he checks, he wasnt giving a benefit of a doubt and was killed over by such a small, small issue, a minor inconvenience in anybody’s life at a screening of a Mark Wahlberg movie on a Monday afternoon.

Regretfully I have to admit that I have used my cell phone at movie screenings before but I try to keep the use of as little time as possible with the screen on the darkest possible setting and the vibration and the sound all the way down. But sometimes I have to use it for a few seconds, I certainly hope the people behind me wouldnt kill me over it. Likewise, if someone uses the phone in front of me and bothers me, I give them a minute or two to shut it up on there own, if they dont I’ll politely ask them to stop and if they dont, I’ll go to a manager, Im not going to kill them over it.

It just seems so ridiculous that this would happen and its a tragic story and such bizarre circumstances but that is Florida for you. The Grove 16 cinema complex does prohibit cell phone use in the theater but it also prohibits gun use…

Let me know what your thoughts are in the comments and I’ll talk to you later