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The Creepy Pasta Topic!

Offline Tomp45

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The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« on: July 06, 2009, 03:55:46 AM »
Well? What are you waiting for post all of your favorite creepy pasta!
Or, even post ones you wrote!


Creepy pasta - Creepy stories that float around on the Interwebs.



Barricade




By: Josef K.  http://thejosefkstories.blogspot.com/ Check him out his story's are awesome.


I’m about to do a very stupid thing.

I know it’s stupid. I know it. But I don’t think I have a choice anymore. And I have to do it now, while I have the nerve and the will and while my hands are still steady.

I’m sick. I’ve always been sick. Some days are better than others. When I was young my parents prayed that it might just be a precursor of the onset of epilepsy, but the seizures never came. I just… can’t trust myself.

I see things. On some days, I can hear them and smell them too. I should say that I used to see them. After being on every possible combination of pills three doctors could come up with, I thought we’d finally found the right chemical key for my misfiring brain. It’s been six years of stability and relative normalcy, trading a halfway house for a tiny studio apartment, a collection of mostly tolerable side-effects, and a steady job. I realize this probably sounds dull for most people, but I cherished every moment of that achingly simple monotony.

It went bad all at once

Friday morning. I awake from the first dream I’ve had in years, a vivid phantasmagoria of colors and sounds, and begrudgingly leave my perfect and sterilely clean apartment for the short walk to work.

I notice it as soon as the elevator opens, the unearthly stillness and silence in the heavy air. The front door of the complex is hanging open, unlocked and swinging gently, the faintest trace of smoke drifting inward in the damp breeze. Outside, the wide streets are empty and bare. My mouth is suddenly dry and I rock back on my heels, cresting a crippling wave of panic and déjà vu.

This particular hallucination, the quiet and the smoke and the emptiness, was always my most frequent; I haven’t had it in six years but the familiarity of it stings. I shut my eyes tightly, and jab my hand at the panels of chipped buttons. Moments later I am on the top floor half, and walking half blind the path to my door with practiced familiarity. Once inside I sit on my bed, gripping tight the handle of my cane, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Focused. Calm. Clear. I open my eyes.

I can’t be outside like this, I know this. I was hit by a car when I was homeless, wandering dazed into the street, while my fevered mind saw only emptiness. I’ll need a replacement hip before I’m forty. I can hear the slivers of bone grind a little with every labored step. I call my boss, and leave a terse message, apologizing for being too ill to work today.

I hold my breath as I open the one tiny window in my studio. It’s so close to the building next to me, I can almost touch its brick wall and I can’t see the street from this height and angle: but as I strain to lean out the window, sounds of yelling and a few whining engines drift up to me. The pall of unearthly quiet is broken, and I feel a great sense of relief, knowing that my episode is over.

I am counting the pills in orderly columns on the table, proving a fifth time to myself that I have taken my daily regimen, when I start to hear the screaming. It builds from far below; riding the struts and supports of the tower until it seems to emanate from the bones of the building.

An hour later the sounds seem like they are right outside; horrid, terrified, inchoate clumps of half formed words and pleas, punctuated by wet, ragged shrieks and heavy muffled thudding. The breathing and relaxation exercises aren’t helping, and I’m gripping the edge of my bed, soaked in sweat. The idea appears fully formed in my mind: I need to barricade the door. I struggle to suppress it. It would be like- giving up; all progress I’ve made would be for naught if I entertain the notion that the episode is real.

But the screaming… this is a new one for me.

There’s the shuffle of movement outside, and the knob of the door twists violently and shudders against the deadbolt. I try to cry out, but my throat is parched and only a dry croak comes out. The door starts flex slightly as heavy blows land on the outside, and a mad, gibbering chorus of voices spits out a strange nonsense of broken syllables.

It only takes me a moment to decide now. I burst to my feet and throw all my weight into the bookshelf, crashing into it with bright white bolt of pain. It topples slowly, leaning at first like a tree and then smashing to the ground. On top of the bookshelf goes my desk and chairs, my hip screaming with each step. I collapse again on the floor, grasping for breath, and listen to the pounding subside and the horrid voices retreat.

That was two days ago.

They come back every day and scratch at the door, whispering in that vile gibberish. Sometimes I allow myself to think I can recognize the voices. The phone is dead, and the power is out. When I lean out the window and yell for help, the only answer I get is the occasional shriek or ululating babble.

When I was younger, when I was at my worst, my episodes would last for hours, at most. I am at a loss. I have very little food left and the water pressure has already dropped.

Lying in bed in the late summer heat, in a moment of near total silence, the inevitability of it occurs to me. If I stay, I’ll starve. What happens to me on the other side of the barricade only depends on how sick I really am.

I want to believe with a sudden desire I am just ill, simply and profoundly ill. The sureness of it wells up in me, and I feel suddenly awake and lucid. I need a doctor, surely, but soon the hallucination will lift and my mind will heal. I just need to break through this.

I need to go outside.

I remove the bookshelf slowly, rotating it away from the door gently to rest with the other furniture. This is right, I assure myself. This is healthy. I turn the deadbolt, put my hand on the handle, and try to suppress the rising terror in my guts. I give it a little pressure.

Outside, I hear a dry shuffling and a low rising murmur of unfathomable voices, and my surety drains from me, leaving only cold and naked horror in its place.

My hand is on the door.

I’m about to do a very stupid thing.
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********(¨`·.·´¨).I.(¨`·.·´¨)* *********
****(`·.·´`·. ¸.·;Love`·.¸.·´`·.·´)*****
*****`·.¸.·´*        Pie      *`·¸.´******
*******`·.¸(¨`· Forever·´¨)..·´********
**************`·.¸.·´********* ******

Offline Adelaide

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #1 on: July 06, 2009, 04:25:09 AM »
Wow.. Thats admirable writing... Its incredible.. the detail, the precision, the imagery, the invoke in emotion, and the clear yet amazing wording... Daaamn... awesome writing... Dewd's got skillz...
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********(¨`·.·´¨).I.(¨`·.·´¨)* *********
****(`·.·´`·. ¸.·;Love`·.¸.·´`·.·´)*****
*****`·.¸.·´*ZombieHugs*`·¸.´******
*******`·.¸(¨`· Forever·´¨)..·´********
**************`·.¸.·´********* ******
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Offline Tomp45

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #2 on: July 06, 2009, 04:33:03 AM »
Hell yeah he does.
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****(`·.·´`·. ¸.·;Love`·.¸.·´`·.·´)*****
*****`·.¸.·´*        Pie      *`·¸.´******
*******`·.¸(¨`· Forever·´¨)..·´********
**************`·.¸.·´********* ******

Offline Flashwerewolf

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #3 on: July 06, 2009, 05:43:31 AM »
no one knows waht creepy pasta is.

[kata]

Offline Adelaide

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #4 on: July 06, 2009, 05:52:38 AM »
I know what spaghettieis is...




It is spaghetti ice cream served in Germany =] Ice cream with strawberry or cherry sauce and coconut so it looks just like spaghetti! <3

It's awesomeness!
I am the creator of awesome points and therefore I have a never ending supply.
10 Luffle Points~!


-------------------------------------------
********(¨`·.·´¨).I.(¨`·.·´¨)* *********
****(`·.·´`·. ¸.·;Love`·.¸.·´`·.·´)*****
*****`·.¸.·´*ZombieHugs*`·¸.´******
*******`·.¸(¨`· Forever·´¨)..·´********
**************`·.¸.·´********* ******
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Offline Wesker

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #5 on: July 06, 2009, 09:29:06 AM »
...I still wouldn't eat that.
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Offline tkoold

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #6 on: July 06, 2009, 12:13:09 PM »
Lol this may get the topic locked but.. Wouldnt creepy pasta be Made out of someones White sauce? meh probably to gross and creepy [shit]

Offline ShinamoriAoshi

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #7 on: July 06, 2009, 12:31:11 PM »
Memories. They’re how we know what has happened. Everything you remember goes in to who you are, why you act the way you do. It’s a shame that people are not afflicted by the things they cannot remember. Especially you.
Memories are funny like that. Sometimes, when something so wonderfully frightening happens to you, your silly mind blocks it out to ‘protect you.’ While it might think it’s doing you a favor, it kills me to see it take those things away from you. Amazing things have happened to you. Horrible things have happened to you.
Even if you’ve forgotten, I will always remember. I was there with you every step of the way. I was standing in the shadows, watching you. Tormenting you. You have such exquisite fear, I can’t get enough of it. Over and over, I put you through the most exciting times of your life, watching each time as you collapse upon yourself in mindless terror. You’re exhilarating. If only I could watch you suffer forever.. But that silly mind of yours. Each time, you forget what fun we’ve had and go on like nothing ever happened. You even read stories about horrific things, and you take pleasure those horrors as I do.
Yet, you could never even fathom how grand it is to watch you endure them. None of those stories could amount up to the terrors you’ve faced. I want to have more fun with you, and spend more time with you. I want to watch you screech in dismay again and again. I want to experience your agony a million times. I only wish you would remember the dread I put in you. I wish that you would remember me, and cry out in the night. It delights me thoroughly every time you see one of my abominations. You’re so resourceful, always finding a way to live without losing any of your limbs. If only I could watch you die as you scream, so scared for your life. If only the last memory you had was of me, making you drown in your fear as you begged for mercy, tears streaming down your face. I’d tell you I love you, and I would thank you for all the great times you’ve let me share with you. I think I would be truly happy as I watched you sink into your final, dying despair.
If you were smart, you wouldn’t turn out those lights and pretend you’re not hearing strange noises. You wouldn’t distract yourself and remain alone, convinced that you’ll be okay. Do you remember what happened the last time you did?
.. No, I suppose you wouldn’t.
Awesome Points: 155
Shin's the perverted hero, he wouldnt stoop to that level.

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Offline tkoold

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #8 on: July 06, 2009, 06:06:23 PM »
that almost sounds like a line out of the anime Big O

Offline ShinamoriAoshi

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #9 on: July 06, 2009, 06:36:38 PM »
A LINE? Haha.
Awesome Points: 155
Shin's the perverted hero, he wouldnt stoop to that level.

omegadoomslayer (7:36:13 PM): You, Pryce and Whales are the Trio of Terrible

Cewt Addy Bunny (3:38:58 PM): You are a ­di­­ck.
frashprince55 (3:39:12 PM): Why thank you.

Offline Adelaide

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #10 on: July 06, 2009, 06:36:55 PM »
the beginning sorta does.. the rest is pretty gewd too... Very well done Shin ^_^
I am the creator of awesome points and therefore I have a never ending supply.
10 Luffle Points~!


-------------------------------------------
********(¨`·.·´¨).I.(¨`·.·´¨)* *********
****(`·.·´`·. ¸.·;Love`·.¸.·´`·.·´)*****
*****`·.¸.·´*ZombieHugs*`·¸.´******
*******`·.¸(¨`· Forever·´¨)..·´********
**************`·.¸.·´********* ******
[refle]http://4mchan.org/Forum/gallery/1_22_05_09_12_36_39.png[/refle]

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Offline Tomp45

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #11 on: July 06, 2009, 07:10:57 PM »
 [zomgnoes] That was creepy.

There was a hunter in the woods, who, after a long day hunting, was in the middle of an immense forest. It was getting dark, and having lost his bearings, he decided to head in one direction until he was clear of the increasingly oppressive foliage. After a what seemed like hours, he came across a cabin in a small clearing. Realizing how dark it had grown, he decided to see if he could stay there for the night. He approached, and found the door ajar. Nobody was inside. The hunter flopped down on the single bed, deciding to explain himself to the owner in the morning. As he looked around, he was suprised to see the walls adorned by many portraits, all painted in incredible detail. Without exception, they all appeared to be staring down at him, their features twisted into looks of hatred. Staring back, he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Making a concerted effort to ignore the many hateful faces, he turned to face the wall, and exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.

Face down in an unfamiliar bed, he turned blinking in unexpected sunlight. Looking up, he discovered that the cabin had no portraits, only windows.



My all time favorite, no title or author.
-------------------------------------------
********(¨`·.·´¨).I.(¨`·.·´¨)* *********
****(`·.·´`·. ¸.·;Love`·.¸.·´`·.·´)*****
*****`·.¸.·´*        Pie      *`·¸.´******
*******`·.¸(¨`· Forever·´¨)..·´********
**************`·.¸.·´********* ******

Offline Adelaide

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #12 on: July 06, 2009, 10:18:09 PM »
I just looked up creepy pasta... I know what it is now! I think I've written creepy pasta before.. yeah... I wrote one once when I was really angry about this girl in my school who I had known, who was sorta a misfit, and ended up committing suicide. I was already depressed, and then suddenly angry with her for being so selfish... So I wrote as an outlet.. haha, here goes.

Hatred

What is it I want from life? I don't want love, or friends, or even family. What have they ever done for me? Ever since I was a young child I was neglected and made into an outcast. The vision of others blurs as they turn to face me and so the way they seem to see me is forever unclear. They don't see me for who I am, they never even try. It was always this way, all I've ever known is hate. What it is I want from life, is nothing more than raw power. I want to make those who hurt me pay, I want them to suffer. I don't want to harbor emotions, I want to be free of them.

Hands stuffed in my pockets, I walk through the dim lit night. My eyes fixed on the ground, I keep my face hidden from the world. I don't want to be seen, for no one has ever seen beauty in me. I have no one, I want no one. As late as it is, there are very little people, but still the people who pass by me think nothing of me. I am a shadow gone unnoticed as a blend in with my surroundings. I hate each person who passes me. I hate them all with an envious burning, deep down into my very soul. I don't care who they are or what they have done, I wouldn't care if they died, in fact I wish death upon them. My footsteps, almost silent, move at a constant pace. I walk hidden in my mask of insecurity, but who cares about what it is a feel? Who cares about what it is that pains me and what it is that keeps me moving on? No one cares for me and like I said, I no longer want for someone to.

My once unhindered pace is interrupted by a degenerate girl, who uncaring passes me by and her shoulder clashes with my own. I am pushed out of the way and the girl turns to face me, though still I keep myself hidden. She is beautiful beyond belief, a fragile figure with a soft smile and affectionate eyes. She apologizes for such an act, claiming it to be an accident. I hope she dies. Not because she bumped into me, but because she is so perfect and beautiful. Her head moves to try to reveal my hidden face, in a failed attempt. A gentle finger moves under my chin to raise me head, though I resist, she is the successor. Why she is acting this way, I won't ever know. I gaze coldly upon her, for she had no right to lay hand on me.

She sees the pain in my eyes, feels the hurt I've endured. I can see it by the way her expression twists, though I've never seen one show such empathy. Her words gentle and concerned, she wonders about the mystery that is me. I unwillingly answer her with brief answers. We parted, though for some reason she seemed as if she hadn't wanted to do so. Why had she been kind to me when no one else ever has? Could she possible be different from the rest? No... It would be impossible, she is one of them. Thats all she'll ever be. I still hate her, I still want her to die. Leave me and never find me again, though you have seen me once, will you ever look upon me so generously again? I doubt it, for no one wants to see me. No one wants to speak with me and no one wants to love me. I could care less. My steady pace returns as I walk, there was something about her.

Where I was going I would never know, for I had no where to go. I had no place to be and no reason to want to be there. If I die then I die, and if I live so be it. She looks back at me, I feel her eyes on the back of my skull. Again she approaches me, a gentle loving hand on my shoulder. She doesn't understand does she? I want her to leave, I want her to drop dead and rot where she stands. She offers for me to stay with her, I am left in confusion. Overwhelmed with curiosity I accept, what fool turns down warmth when they were destined for the bitterness of night? She doesn't live in anything special, just a small cheap rented apartment. The smell is strange and the lighting is dimmed. It has very little and it is obvious she hasn't much to give. So why was she offering more to me?

We spoke that night and I learned more of her. She had endured a life similar to my own, but she had made something of it. She hadn't given up hope, and though she had little she still had more than me. I wish her to die even more so now. She had more strength than I, she was given a second chance while I remained in the darkness unwilling to move on. Who does she think she is? She had given me the couch to sleep on and then she left for bed.

I lay still in the darkness, the open window allowing for the chirping of vile crickets to reach my ears. There is something not right about this place, however, as I lay here I feel a great discomfort, a yearning to leave, as if here is not where I belong. A breeze rushes in, through that same open window, that taunting terrible window, and as strongly as the desire burns to close it, I cannot bring myself to do such. The wind, like a menacing demon, curves, twists horrifically, into a vile creature; horrendous, with claws, sharp like daggers, and teeth, drenching in saliva, as it turns death-bringing eyes in my direction. This thing hadn't ever happened to me, but strangely I feel a bond with such a creature as this; a strange familiarity washes over me. I can relate to this thing, this grueling stomach churning beast, that, I can only assume, crawled from the dark depths of hell. I stand, my mind numbing; I am scared beyond all belief, yet oddly, I am drawn by the comfort this creature brings me.

 It is only then that an overwhelming amount of pressure forces me to my knees, as I gasp suddenly for air, I feel steel claws against my skin; my ever so tender wrists. At that moment, it came to me, that there was no beast besides whatever my sick thoughts warped into being. I felt the bitter steel of a knife resting in my left hand. Those thoughts I had, the ones just before the vile beast appeared before me, still lingered in my mind.

There was no reason to go on, who cared for me? No one still... Sure one had shown me kindness, but I didn't want it and had made that clear. There was a numbing sting where thin sharp edge of the blade sunk under my flesh, opening my veins and releasing my blood. It spilled out onto the floor and down the flesh of my arm. It soaked into my clothes and it wasn't long before my body was weak and vision as blurry as those who saw me. My body grew cold, and I knew I had finally ended it all, whether the blame be put on my imaginations cruel terrors or not, but why now did I regret it? The realization came, I had been given my second chance. The woman was meant to open my eyes, that was our purpose for meeting, but instead I ended my misery. Oh what horrid a day that I would end my life when for the first time I want to live it? I grow stiff and life leaves my eyes. My hand still clutching the blade as my soul leaves my corpse. So here is where I am. A soul condemned to hell and still holding a deep hatred for all but a single soul who'd shown me I was the one who'd done wrong.
I am the creator of awesome points and therefore I have a never ending supply.
10 Luffle Points~!


-------------------------------------------
********(¨`·.·´¨).I.(¨`·.·´¨)* *********
****(`·.·´`·. ¸.·;Love`·.¸.·´`·.·´)*****
*****`·.¸.·´*ZombieHugs*`·¸.´******
*******`·.¸(¨`· Forever·´¨)..·´********
**************`·.¸.·´********* ******
[refle]http://4mchan.org/Forum/gallery/1_22_05_09_12_36_39.png[/refle]

[img]http://4mchan.org/Forum/gallery/1_27_08_09_1_54_05.

Offline ShinamoriAoshi

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #13 on: July 07, 2009, 12:10:32 AM »
SHIT JUST GOT CREEEPY.

Especially yours Tomp.
Awesome Points: 155
Shin's the perverted hero, he wouldnt stoop to that level.

omegadoomslayer (7:36:13 PM): You, Pryce and Whales are the Trio of Terrible

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Offline Tomp45

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #14 on: July 07, 2009, 12:56:57 AM »
Nice story Addy!



UNKNOWN By: Unknown


I’d heard stories of it. Retreat Road down in Cochrane, Alberta. They have a monastery there. Robes and everything. But their real claim to fame is the massive statue of Christ being crucified in the woods. I’ve been there a few times. Walked up the path with all the smaller statues beside the path. There was a baby, a group of people reaching towards Jesus, all those things, finally culminating in this 20-foot tall cross with Jesus hanging from it. What gets a lot of people though, is that Jesus is weeping on the cross. Nobody can seem to figure out why. Weeping is not the action of a Lord and Saviour.

Never.

Unthinkable.

I’ve been a few times during the day. It’s an interesting walk. Even for the Atheist like myself, it is still awe-inspiring.

I happened to notice lights though, beneath all the statues. I asked around, and they do light the path up at night. I asked if I could come back then, but they told me the path would be closed. No one would tell me why. Not one to follow rules, I returned that night, and made my way over the fence and onto the path. As I walked along the winding route to the large statue, I passed the smaller statues. They seemed different. It was the angle the light hit them. The statue of the baby … it’s eyes were all sunken in, and the shadows seemed to make its fingers end in claws. The statue of the people reaching towards Jesus, they looked dead, reaching towards Jesus with the shadows casting a look of horror on his face. Something about them really unsettled me, but it was on a deeper level than just what they depicted now. I reached the statue of Jesus and gazed up at his face. I stood there for what felt like hours, just wondering why he was weeping. What for? What cause?

I heard the whispers and rustling of the trees on all sides of me long before I saw anything. I gazed up at Jesus, looked deep into those stone eyes, and understood.

That night, he was weeping for me.
-------------------------------------------
********(¨`·.·´¨).I.(¨`·.·´¨)* *********
****(`·.·´`·. ¸.·;Love`·.¸.·´`·.·´)*****
*****`·.¸.·´*        Pie      *`·¸.´******
*******`·.¸(¨`· Forever·´¨)..·´********
**************`·.¸.·´********* ******

Offline ShinamoriAoshi

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #15 on: July 07, 2009, 02:42:37 PM »
The Diary Of A Madman                     May 26, 2009
Hello Diary,
My name is Daniel Franklin. I just got this leather-bound beauty of a book in a garage sale. Its covers are smooth and black; the pages, yellowed and antique in texture—no doubt a detail I will become fond of as time goes on. Hell, I already like it. Gives the book a classical feel—such a delightful thing, don’t you agree?
But I digress. Today was just full of ventures to break the rut into which my life had sunk. First, I tried that new eatery on Eighth, and then, I bought this book at an old out-of-the-way garage sale in Eatonville. Such a kind old woman selling them, and the cookies she gave to buyers were just delicious. I may go back just to get one, if not to acquire the recipe itself!
Well, my cat Bartolome is keeping me company tonight, and I must cut this first, rather short entry to a close. I hope to update this with the memoirs of my life many, many times.
May 27, 2009
Hello Diary,
Daniel again. Today was as boring as usual. Even my favorite book couldn’t alleviate the cloud of boredom over my head. I’m starting to find my “best friend,” Mark, to be a tad annoying. Mark is nothing special—normal American family man from the suburbs.
Is there something wrong with me if I start to think some human beings as disposable? It earlier crossed my mind how uninteresting some of the robotic creatures I liked to keep in my company really are.
Ashley, with her endless list of pet names for her latest boy toy.
Stuart, his mumbling about the paranormal, UFOs and the like. Though his theories are interesting, they’re still about the same thing every day.
Is it really wrong to think of these beings as just packs of meat that shouldn’t have even been given a working brain? Death will be a mercy to them, once they reach that fateful day—
Wait, what am I writing? These are my friends; what the hell came over me?

Well, I did stop by that sweet old woman’s house today. We shared a plate of some of those delectable cookies with some tea, the flavor of which I just couldn’t place. Such a sweet old woman; it is too bad much of her family is dead or has forgotten about her. Her name is Susan Anderson, and her home is filled with so many curiosities from the ages of old, and it just fascinates me so. I must go back there again sometime.
I must pull this entry to a close. I am still asking myself how I could think such horrible things as I did about my closest co-workers.
May 28, 2009
Diary,
I am going to be rambling tonight. I woke up because of a….well, I don’t know if this was a bad dream or a good dream. I remember it so vividly, even though dreams have almost never stuck in my head since the days of my puberty, and many of them were less confusing and a little more…wet.
This one was strange, felt more like a memory than a dream, though before now I hadn’t been aware of such a memory. It was when I was barely five years old. I was the son of the town butcher. My teenage sister at the time loved me, and I loved her. I never knew she was sad in any way; she always seemed happy enough. I never knew her true thoughts. Even as I write this, I still don’t understand.
In my dream, I was toddling through the house, but, something struck me as being amiss. One of daddy’s knives was missing. I looked up at the wooden knife block, seeing the curious gap in the row of black grips. Daddy always said to tell him when there was a knife gone from his counter.
For whatever reason, I didn’t pay attention to his rule and continued on in my dream. Suddenly, I was pushing my way into my sister’s room. She was on her bed, her arms hanging off of each side of her bed, dripping with some dark red liquid. It looked almost like… juice.
I walked over and dragged my finger across one of the pools of red liquid before placing my finger in my mouth and sucking. It was not a pleasant taste… rather, it tasted like some of those shavings left over when Daddy sharpened his knives.
The rest seemed to happen in slow motion. Mommy walked in and found us, she screamed and fell on the bed over my sissy. I tugged on her dress.
“What’s wrong mommy? Sissy’s just sleeping… and she made juice!”
…that’s all I remember of the dream. It was chilling. I remember it, and I think I will continue to think about it. I can’t shake it. Is it an actual memory that I put behind me?
I can still taste the “juice” in the dream. It tasted heavily of iron… but also… sweet.

June 9, 2009
Diary,
I have an explanation as to why I have been absent.
Mark has died… he got in a car crash and bled to death. Oh god… poor little Justine; she’s going to be five next week and now she doesn’t have a father with whom to spend her birthdays.
Mona, his wife, is a wreck. His funeral service is on Sunday. I will miss him dearly. I’ve known him since we were both just in kindergarten, you see.
I have been like a ghost these past couple of days. The boss told me to take some days off from work at the office, at least until after the funeral. It will be hard to cope with this loss, but I believe I will come through all this with my head held high.
-A small trickle of blood is shown on the side of the page-
Oh my, a paper cut… such trivial little things—tiny, thin, they heal in less than an hour if they are treated right, but they bleed like the flower powerens until they do. Agh, that memory…
They only sting, but you can always feel them nagging at you for the time they’re there. Also, the blood… it has that same taste of the blood in my memory. Most people find the taste too metallic. No one tastes the sweet side of the bodily fluid.
What am I saying? It is revolting! Such a barbaric thing to do, drink blood, to say it’s sweet… even if it is.
June 12, 2009
Diary,
I have been fired
I have drunk my own blood
It is delicious, so sweet, so thick. I just love it. I gave it some thought for the last couple of days, and the liquid is almost magical, isn’t it? Such a deep red… mysterious and again, thick.
I love it; I would drink all the blood out of my own body if it wouldn’t kill me—but now that I gave thought to it, trying to keep this new taste of mine at bay was just plain asinine. It is a beautiful thing, prettier than the average rose. Nothing can beat it.
Though… my thoughts are now starting to wander. If my own blood tastes this good, how am I to know that other people’s blood doesn’t taste better? I must find out. Let the consequences not sway mine hand. I will have my sweet elixir, my sparkling cider. My red wine.
June 15, 2009
6 o’clock PM
Tonight, I will sample another’s blood. It will be that sweet old Susan Anderson. She won’t be missed anyway, so why not have her be my first? It will be like a mercy to her, being so old and near death already. I bet her blood has aged like sweet, sweet wine.
I will bring my two closest friends with me. You see, Mark is coming along for this excursion into the night, along with my sweet sister Alexis. They understand and support me. They know how sweet blood really is. They know that I need it, I crave it, my body yearns for it. Yes, with this knife and this glass, they will help me sample the selfishly unshared blood of Susan Anderson.
7:02 PM
She welcomed me! She thinks I am just here to share another cup of tea. She did not even question the knife and glass; hell, she even put them on her cabinet, as if on display! Oh well, I do not need a knife. I have this pen, and as everyone says, the pen is mightier than the sword. As I said, I will have her blood
But, who says I can’t have a little appetizer? Just a simple prick on the finger, that is all I need… yes, yes, simply delicious! I must have more!
-The ink has taken on a red tinge, as if tainted by some outside liquid-
I must have more! The finger is not enough for me anymore; this is just child’s play. Now, where should I cut to find more?
Ah, of course, I’ve known the answer all along. That dream wasn’t just a memory; it was a telling of the future! The veins and arteries in my wrist will have the sweetest mixture; my sweet, sweet sister was just showing me where to find it! My word, this must be the nectar of god himself! Just so divine! Blood is the answer to all of my prayers!
-Large spots of blood drip on the page-
I must have more… more… more… sister is showing me the way.
July 1st, 2009
What a pleasant diary! Such a nice feel to it, the cover the most exquisite shade of red, the pages old and yellowed, just like some journal back in the times of Lewis and Clark!
I simply demanded to know where Susan got it, but all she said was that she had many of the like. She must be rich! Such a book deserves to be put into a display case! She also invited me into her house, where I am now, which is filled with so many oddities! Old guns, shards of plastic grouped with destroyed clocks… she even has a kitchen knife and an exquisite wine glass on one of her cabinets.
She led me to a grand book case and I was amazed at the various books lining its shelves! Some of them looked centuries old, but the newest one looks like a twin of this one, simply in black! I asked her if I could read some of them, but she simply shook her head with a smile. Oh well…
Where are my manners? My name is Martin Sampson of Eatonville, Washington, and I cannot wait to write the memoirs of my life on these welcoming yellow pages.[/]
Awesome Points: 155
Shin's the perverted hero, he wouldnt stoop to that level.

omegadoomslayer (7:36:13 PM): You, Pryce and Whales are the Trio of Terrible

Cewt Addy Bunny (3:38:58 PM): You are a ­di­­ck.
frashprince55 (3:39:12 PM): Why thank you.

Offline Tomp45

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #16 on: July 07, 2009, 07:13:51 PM »
That's a nice story, but i had to read it twice.
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********(¨`·.·´¨).I.(¨`·.·´¨)* *********
****(`·.·´`·. ¸.·;Love`·.¸.·´`·.·´)*****
*****`·.¸.·´*        Pie      *`·¸.´******
*******`·.¸(¨`· Forever·´¨)..·´********
**************`·.¸.·´********* ******

Offline ShinamoriAoshi

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #17 on: July 07, 2009, 11:22:58 PM »
Yeah, I thought it was pretty good.
Awesome Points: 155
Shin's the perverted hero, he wouldnt stoop to that level.

omegadoomslayer (7:36:13 PM): You, Pryce and Whales are the Trio of Terrible

Cewt Addy Bunny (3:38:58 PM): You are a ­di­­ck.
frashprince55 (3:39:12 PM): Why thank you.

Offline Tomp45

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #18 on: July 07, 2009, 11:43:23 PM »
This is a classic.




There’s Room For One More
By: Unknown


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

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

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

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

It was the face of the coachman of the hearse. “No, thank you,” said the girl. “I’ll walk down.” She turned away, the elevator doors clanged, there was a terrible rush and screaming and shouting, and then a great clatter and thud. The elevator had fallen and every soul in it was killed.
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********(¨`·.·´¨).I.(¨`·.·´¨)* *********
****(`·.·´`·. ¸.·;Love`·.¸.·´`·.·´)*****
*****`·.¸.·´*        Pie      *`·¸.´******
*******`·.¸(¨`· Forever·´¨)..·´********
**************`·.¸.·´********* ******

Offline TwitchLord

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Re: The Creepy Pasta Topic!
« Reply #19 on: July 08, 2009, 01:37:46 AM »
good story sounds like something from the twilight zone