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Discussion in Everything & Anything started by Kloud, Jul 11, 2013

  1. Apr 3, 2013
    I'm kinda bored right now, and want to read some good creepypastas, so post some here thanks :grin: (Not too creepy, eugh)
  2. Feb 3, 2012
    Here's some nightmare fuel:
    During my childhood my family was like a drop of water in a vast river, never remaining in one location for long. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight, and there we remained until I went to college in Colorado Springs. Most of my memories are rooted in Rhode Island, but there are fragments in the attic of my brain which belong to the various homes we had lived in when I was much younger.
    Most of these memories are unclear and pointless– chasing after another boy in the back yard of a house in North Carolina, trying to build a raft to float on the creek behind the apartment we rented in Pennsylvania, and so on. But there is one set of memories which remains as clear as glass, as though they were just made yesterday. I often wonder whether these memories are simply lucid dreams produced by the long sickness I experienced that Spring, but in my heart, I know they are real.
    We were living in a house just outside the bustling metropolis of New Vineyard, Maine, population 643. It was a large structure, especially for a family of three. There were a number of rooms that I didn’t see in the five months we resided there. In some ways it was a waste of space, but it was the only house on the market at the time, at least within an hour’s commute to my father’s place of work.
    The day after my fifth birthday (attended by my parents alone), I came down with a fever. The doctor said I had mononucleosis, which meant no rough play and more fever for at least another three weeks. It was horrible timing to be bed-ridden– we were in the process of packing our things to move to Pennsylvania, and most of my things were already packed away in boxes, leaving my room barren. My mother brought me ginger ale and books several times a day, and these served the function of being my primary from of entertainment for the next few weeks. Boredom always loomed just around the corner, waiting to rear its ugly head and compound my misery.
    I don’t exactly recall how I met Mr. Widemouth. I think it was about a week after I was diagnosed with mono. My first memory of the small creature was asking him if he had a name. He told me to call him Mr. Widemouth, because his mouth was large. In fact, everything about him was large in comparison to his body– his head, his eyes, his crooked ears– but his mouth was by far the largest.
    “You look kind of like a Furby,” I said as he flipped through one of my books.
    Mr. Widemouth stopped and gave me a puzzled look. “Furby? What’s a Furby?” he asked.
    I shrugged. “You know… the toy. The little robot with the big ears. You can pet and feed them, almost like a real pet.”
    “Oh.” Mr. Widemouth resumed his activity. “You don’t need one of those. They aren’t the same as having a real friend.”
    I remember Mr. Widemouth disappearing every time my mother stopped by to check in on me. “I lay under your bed,” he later explained. “I don’t want your parents to see me because I’m afraid they won’t let us play anymore.”
    We didn’t do much during those first few days. Mr. Widemouth just looked at my books, fascinated by the stories and pictures they contained. The third or fourth morning after I met him, he greeted me with a large smile on his face. “I have a new game we can play,” he said. “We have to wait until after your mother comes to check on you, because she can’t see us play it. It’s a secret game.”
    After my mother delivered more books and soda at the usual time, Mr. Widemouth slipped out from under the bed and tugged my hand. “We have to go the the room at the end of this hallway,” he said. I objected at first, as my parents had forbidden me to leave my bed without their permission, but Mr. Widemouth persisted until I gave in.
    The room in question had no furniture or wallpaper. Its only distinguishing feature was a window opposite the doorway. Mr. Widemouth darted across the room and gave the window a firm push, flinging it open. He then beckoned me to look out at the ground below.
    We were on the second story of the house, but it was on a hill, and from this angle the drop was farther than two stories due to the incline. “I like to play pretend up here,” Mr. Widemouth explained. “I pretend that there is a big, soft trampoline below this window, and I jump. If you pretend hard enough you bounce back up like a feather. I want you to try.”
    I was a five-year-old with a fever, so only a hint of skepticism darted through my thoughts as I looked down and considered the possibility. “It’s a long drop,” I said.
    “But that’s all a part of the fun. It wouldn’t be fun if it was only a short drop. If it were that way you may as well just bounce on a real trampoline.”
    I toyed with the idea, picturing myself falling through thin air only to bounce back to the window on something unseen by human eyes. But the realist in me prevailed. “Maybe some other time,” I said. “I don’t know if I have enough imagination. I could get hurt.”
    Mr. Widemouth’s face contorted into a snarl, but only for a moment. Anger gave way to disappointment. “If you say so,” he said. He spent the rest of the day under my bed, quiet as a mouse.
    The following morning Mr. Widemouth arrived holding a small box. “I want to teach you how to juggle,” he said. “Here are some things you can use to practice, before I start giving you lessons.”
    I looked in the box. It was full of knives. “My parents will kill me!” I shouted, horrified that Mr. Widemouth had brought knives into my room– objects that my parents would never allow me to touch. “I’ll be spanked and grounded for a year!”
    Mr. Widemouth frowned. “It’s fun to juggle with these. I want you to try it.”
    I pushed the box away. “I can’t. I’ll get in trouble. Knives aren’t safe to just throw in the air.”
    Mr. Widemouth’s frown deepend into a scowl. He took the box of knives and slid under my bed, remaining there the rest of the day. I began to wonder how often he was under me.
    I started having trouble sleeping after that. Mr. Widemouth often woke me up at night, saying he put a real trampoline under the window, a big one, one that I couldn’t see in the dark. I always declined and tried to go back to sleep, but Mr. Widemouth persisted. Sometimes he stayed by my side until early in the morning, encouraging me to jump.
    He wasn’t so fun to play with anymore.
    My mother came to me one morning and told me I had her permission to walk around outside. She thought the fresh air would be good for me, especially after being confined to my room for so long. Exstatic, I put on my sneakers and trotted out to the back porch, yearning for the feeling of sun on my face.
    Mr. Widemouth was waiting for me. “I have something I want you to see,” he said. I must have given him a weird look, because he then said, “It’s safe, I promise.”
    I followed him to the beginning of a deer trail which ran through the woods behind the house. “This is an important path,” he explained. “I’ve had a lot of friends about your age. When they were ready, I took them down this path, to a special place. You aren’t ready yet, but one day, I hope to take you there.”
    I returned to the house, wondering what kind of place lay beyond that trail.
    Two weeks after I met Mr. Widemouth, the last load of our things had been packed into a moving truck. I would be in the cab of that truck, sitting next to my father for the long drive to Pennsylvania. I considered telling Mr. Widemouth that I would be leaving, but even at five years old, I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the creature’s intentions were not to my benefit, despite what he said otherwise. For this reason, I decided to keep my departure a secret.
    My father and I were in the truck at 4 a.m. He was hoping to make it to Pennyslvania by lunch time tomorrow with the help of an endless supply of coffee and a six-pack of energy drinks. He seemed more like a man who was about to run a marathon rather than one who was about to spend two days sitting still.
    “Early enough for you?” he asked.
    I nodded and placed my head against the window, hoping for some sleep before the sun came up. I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. “This is the last move, son, I promise. I know it’s hard for you, as sick as you’ve been. Once daddy gets promoted we can settle down and you can make friends.”
    I opened my eyes as we backed out of the driveway. I saw Mr. Widemouth’s silouhette in my bedroom window. He stood motionless until the truck was about to turn onto the main road. He gave a pitiful little wave good-bye, steak knife in hand. I didn’t wave back.
    Years later, I returned to New Vineyard. The piece of land our house stood upon was empty except for the foundation, as the house burned down a few years after my family left. Out of curiosity, I followed the deer trail that Mr. Widemouth had shown me. Part of me expected him to jump out from behind a tree and scare the living bejeesus out of me, but I felt that Mr. Widemouth was gone, somehow tied to the house that no longer existed.
    The trail ended at the New Vineyard Memorial Cemetery.
    I noticed that many of the tombstones belonged to children.
    • Like Like x 1
    • Feb 27, 2012
      Am i doing it right?
      • Funny Funny x 2
      • Winner Winner x 1
      • Feb 3, 2012
        Here's another one I found:
        You've all heard of smile dog right? That terrifying picture of a husky smiling in a demonic way?
        Yeah. That one. Well I was looking at internet memes and scary stories a few months ago. I stumbled across an Urban Legends video which I found intriguing.
        I watched the video and it told us a few basic facts about Spontaneous Human Combustion and Sleep Paralysis. The video also contained a couple of screamers to kill the mood a little.
        The end 'story' was of Smile Dog. It simply presented the picture and told the viewer the legend. I researched it a bit more and found it to be terrifying but quite cool. I began talking about it to my friends in school the next day. It turned into something of a common interest.
        People would often use it jokingly, like in a history lesson our teacher told us that he collapsed on the floor, and my friend leaned towards me and said, "I guess he saw smile dog...", and it would often make us laugh.
        We then found other stories such as Red Mist or Squidward's Suicide and Candle Cove. We dropped the subject of smile dog for a while after that.
        In our school we often talked to this boy. He was called Michael, he was a strange child, he never spoke to us and he would often keep to himself. We had no idea where he would be at lunchtimes, he wouldn't be hanging out with us, but we found it not to be of our concern. He would often leave lessons early to visit a hospital as he was a rather sickly child. He told me of only a few of his afflictions, the most noticeable being Epilepsy and Schizophrenia.
        He would never show signs of these though, if we mentioned them he would often laugh them off and dismiss them.
        He approached me one day and inquired about smile dog.
        I replied "Oh that thing? Yeah that's obviously fake".
        "Can I see it?"
        "I didn't save it or anything..."
        "Just look it up okay!?"
        I was busy with homework at the time and when people try to talk to me I am rather irritable. He walked off without looking back.
        I didn't see Michael the next day, he was supposed to be in a few of our lessons but he wasn't there. Nobody, not even the teachers knew where he was.
        It was after our first lesson I was called into the headmaster's office. The headmaster sat me down in front of this desk and told me: 'Your friend Michael has been instated to a psychiatric hospital. Apparently he saw something scary and he keeps having visions of it. Have you any idea what that might be?'
        I immediately remembered smile dog.
        "Yes sir..."
        The headmaster immediately brought up his computer and I was faced with the 'Google' search engine. I changed the search to Images and typed in 'Smile dog'.
        I showed the Headmaster the full, 'unedited' image of smile dog.
        He said "Oh my", and told me that Michael wanted to see me.
        He immediately arranged transport for me to the psychiatric hospital. I entered the colossal building with the headmaster where he was stopped by a doctor and said 'Michael only wants his friend, I'm afraid'. The headmaster gave me a bewildered look and I said, "That's fine, see you in a few minutes".
        I strolled down the large, intimidating corridor and reached Room 204.
        The room had a padded floor and wall and a light. No windows except a minuscule viewing slot through the door.
        I walked in and almost vomited.
        Michael was lying face-down in the middle of the room with his hands still gripped tight on his neck. He was dead.
        There was a hastily scrawled note left next to him, it was for me.
        I saw that smile dog you showed me. It's everywhere. No matter what we do it cannot be stopped. It appears even in the brightest moments of your life, it will always be watching. Never moving. It will not go away.
        Why did they put me in this room? WHY?
        I had no escape, no matter how much I kicked off, the doctors would not believe me.
        This was the only way out.
        What if the dog is still there during death? When you are weak, incapacitated, he will drag you down to hell from where he once came.
        This is the reality Josh.
        Do not, ever, mention Smile dog again.
        I pocketed the note and alerted the doctors.
        Upon further inspection of his body, his hand was blocking a horrifying vicious bite into his neck.
        The teeth marks matched that of a dog's.
        A siberian husky.
      • Apr 3, 2013
        First story didn't really scare me, but this one kinda creeped me out a bit. Don't know what that thing looks like, though.
      • Feb 3, 2012
        Search up smile dog. :O
      • Apr 3, 2013
        No thanks. I read some pokemon creepypastas and i kinda do not wanna lookup some pokemon stuff.
      • Nov 11, 2011
        That's what I said. Good story Jed. Go to bed Kloud.
      • Apr 3, 2013

        I need more scarier stories
      • Jul 23, 2012
        So ur with ur honey and yur makin out wen the phon rigns. U answer it n the vioce is "wut r u doing wit my daughter?" U tell ur gurl n she say "my dad is ded".

      • Jun 11, 2012

        Phone was Spaghetti Monster.

        • Informative Informative x 1
        • Jul 23, 2012
          dat phallus
        • Feb 3, 2012
        • Mar 4, 2012
          The ultimate creepy pasta:


        • May 27, 2008

          A lot of things MrCreepyPasta is amazing and worth listening to. Funnymouth is another good, long one.
          • Like Like x 1
          • May 31, 2012
            Uhhhh excuse me, this is below the waist nudity. Which violates the rules. you should probably go ban yourself now, and i should be admin king.

            EDIT: LuciD admin king 2014.
          • Apr 28, 2013
            Probably the worst creepypasta: Sonic.exe

            Probably the best creepypasta: Pokemon Creepy Black (the one with the "GHOST" using curse)
          • Feb 3, 2012
          • Mar 12, 2008

            This is an art. If it was, however, ron jeremy with his dick hanging out doing the same thing, it's considered nudity.

            Don't take this and go posting a bunch of arts with exposed tits/dick though, that's not cool. Keep it tasteful.

            You will never be king.