A teenage baby-sitter put the kids she was watching to sleep in their beds and went back downstairs. The late night news was on the TV -- the reporter said a psychopath from a local mental institution was on the loose and that police thought he might be in the area. He cautioned residents to lock their doors and windows because this guy was very, very dangerous. Well, the teenager checked the locks on the windows and the doors, but she forgot the door on the cellar bulkhead. Needless to say, the psychopath broke in about an hour later, coming up from the cellar, armed with an ax. The children heard some noises downstairs, but thought it was the baby-sitter moving some furniture around. Then it got real quiet. All they heard for the remainder of the night was this noise: "Thump! Thump! Dra-aag... Thump! Thump! Dra-aag..." Evidently, they were too afraid to get up to see what it was. In the morning, their parents came home and were horrified to find the babysitter at the top of the stairs, dead with both arms hacked off at the elbows. She'd been climbing the stairs on the bloody stumps of her arms, pulling her badly injured body along. Was she trying to check on the children? Was she trying to get help? Or in the madness of her tortured soul, was she planning to kill the children herself?
Creepypasta
- Thread starter PLR0031
- Start date
The assassination of John F. Kennedy started a macabre chain that continues to this day. Oswald killed Kennedy, Jack Ruby killed Oswald, this much we know. What few people are aware of is how far it continued after that.
In 1967 while awaiting retrial for the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald, Ruby died in Parkland Hospital (the place of death of both Oswald and JFK), some say due to the negligence of the doctor overseeing him. A few years following this, that same doctor died in an auto accident while on his way home. The driver of the car that struck him would make a full recovery, though the medical costs would bankrupt him and drive him to a life of crime. A store owner acting in self defense would be the one to claim his life, and so on.
Few have kept full track of the chain up 'til now, or how far from Dallas it's traveled, but many believe it still continues. Fewer still are sure if it started with Oswald and JFK, or if perhaps it goes further back than that... betraying some unknown transgression from President Kennedy's past.
Just be careful out there.
In 1967 while awaiting retrial for the murder of Lee Harvey Oswald, Ruby died in Parkland Hospital (the place of death of both Oswald and JFK), some say due to the negligence of the doctor overseeing him. A few years following this, that same doctor died in an auto accident while on his way home. The driver of the car that struck him would make a full recovery, though the medical costs would bankrupt him and drive him to a life of crime. A store owner acting in self defense would be the one to claim his life, and so on.
Few have kept full track of the chain up 'til now, or how far from Dallas it's traveled, but many believe it still continues. Fewer still are sure if it started with Oswald and JFK, or if perhaps it goes further back than that... betraying some unknown transgression from President Kennedy's past.
Just be careful out there.
Special Containment Procedures: Item SCP-173 is to be kept in a locked container at all times. When personnel must enter SCP-173's container, no fewer than 3 may enter at any time and the door is to be relocked behind them. At all times, two persons must maintain direct eye contact with SCP-173 until all personnel have vacated and relocked the container.
Description: Moved to Site19 1993. Origin is as of yet unknown. It is constructed from concrete and rebar with traces of Krylon brand spray paint. SCP-173 is animate and extremely hostile. The object cannot move while within a direct line of sight. Line of sight must not be broken at any time with SCP-173. Personnel assigned to enter container are instructed to alert one another before blinking. Object is reported to attack by snapping the neck at the base of the skull, or by strangulation. In the event of an attack, personnel are to observe Class 4 hazardous object containment procedures.
Personnel report sounds of scraping stone originating from within the container when no one is present inside. This is considered normal, and any change in this behaviour should be reported to the acting HMCL supervisor on duty.
The reddish brown substance on the floor is a combination of feces and blood. Origin of these materials is unknown. The enclosure must be cleaned on a bi-weekly basis.
Description: Moved to Site19 1993. Origin is as of yet unknown. It is constructed from concrete and rebar with traces of Krylon brand spray paint. SCP-173 is animate and extremely hostile. The object cannot move while within a direct line of sight. Line of sight must not be broken at any time with SCP-173. Personnel assigned to enter container are instructed to alert one another before blinking. Object is reported to attack by snapping the neck at the base of the skull, or by strangulation. In the event of an attack, personnel are to observe Class 4 hazardous object containment procedures.
Personnel report sounds of scraping stone originating from within the container when no one is present inside. This is considered normal, and any change in this behaviour should be reported to the acting HMCL supervisor on duty.
The reddish brown substance on the floor is a combination of feces and blood. Origin of these materials is unknown. The enclosure must be cleaned on a bi-weekly basis.
In rural southern Illinois a toy company began selling "realistic" baby dolls to expectant mothers. But apparently after the mother had her child the toy baby would start crying. Eventually the "rocking motion" advertised to calm it down wouldn't work, and you couldn't get it to stop without shaking it. Eventually when it started crying the parent would have to beat it, and the beatings and thrashings would have to get harder and harder to get it to be quiet. The only thing that seemed to shut the baby doll up permanently was the bash its head against the wall to destroy whatever mechanism triggered the crying. On more than one occasion though, neighbors called the authorities to report child abuse, and when the police arrived they found the the bloody remains of infants smeared across the walls and the floor. In most cases the mother couldn't understand why the police were there, she just "got rid of the stupid doll" as she rocked a baby-shaped bundle in her arms.
Close your eyes. All the way. So tightly it almost smarts.
Do you see those swirling darklights, all black and red and purple?
Most people will never pay attention to what should rightly be the back of one's eyelids. In truth, these lights are the place they watch you, every day.
They hide behind your eyelids, waiting for you to blink, to sleep. And they are the reason you die. Every night, every second they are eating your thoughts.
Whenever you try to remember something you know you knew yesterday and cannot, it is not that you forgot it, but that it was consumed. And when you have eventually run out of thoughts you will die an ignominious death. Cancer, heart attacks, strokes - every sudden disease you could name can be traced to them.
Blinking is only a little death. It's sleeping that they really thrive on. Hours of uninterrupted access to the softest parts of your thoughts.
You can, of course, try to stop sleeping altogether. It is possible. They found a Russian man from high in the mountains who claimed that he never slept, ever, a day in his life. The man was 112 and healthier than most American 65-yr-olds. Physically, at least. He could remember every moment of his life from the time he was three years old, if you could get it out of him.
The drawback is that the man was completely insane.
If you ever stop paying attention to them for too long, they will begin to pay attention to you. When you stay up too long they grow hungry, and they grow restless. When you stay up spoiling your eyes on a computer screen you will begin to feel shadows creep into flesh, hear the utilities of the house turn into inhuman breathing, and feel the prickling of invisible fingers at the small of your back. Which is worse for you? Dying little by little, or finding out what happens when they starve?
Do you see those swirling darklights, all black and red and purple?
Most people will never pay attention to what should rightly be the back of one's eyelids. In truth, these lights are the place they watch you, every day.
They hide behind your eyelids, waiting for you to blink, to sleep. And they are the reason you die. Every night, every second they are eating your thoughts.
Whenever you try to remember something you know you knew yesterday and cannot, it is not that you forgot it, but that it was consumed. And when you have eventually run out of thoughts you will die an ignominious death. Cancer, heart attacks, strokes - every sudden disease you could name can be traced to them.
Blinking is only a little death. It's sleeping that they really thrive on. Hours of uninterrupted access to the softest parts of your thoughts.
You can, of course, try to stop sleeping altogether. It is possible. They found a Russian man from high in the mountains who claimed that he never slept, ever, a day in his life. The man was 112 and healthier than most American 65-yr-olds. Physically, at least. He could remember every moment of his life from the time he was three years old, if you could get it out of him.
The drawback is that the man was completely insane.
If you ever stop paying attention to them for too long, they will begin to pay attention to you. When you stay up too long they grow hungry, and they grow restless. When you stay up spoiling your eyes on a computer screen you will begin to feel shadows creep into flesh, hear the utilities of the house turn into inhuman breathing, and feel the prickling of invisible fingers at the small of your back. Which is worse for you? Dying little by little, or finding out what happens when they starve?
dave's thing
pervuator of boredom
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- Mar 17, 2002
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- 3,551
WAY TOO DEEP FOR ME....
Night all
Night all
Thunderbear
Einherjar, enjoying his..
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This is not a *chan, no one is going to get the reference, and moreover not many are going to care.
Quoll
Area 25
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MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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I almost created this thread.
Try reading like 20 of them straight. You won't sleep.
Try reading like 20 of them straight. You won't sleep.
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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- Jan 26, 2002
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Halloween bump
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house in you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of the End". Should a look of child-like fear come over the workers face, you will then be taken to a cell in the building. It will be in a deep hidden section of the building. All you will hear is the sound of someone talking to themselves echo the halls. It is in a language that you will not understand, but your very soul will feel unspeakable fear.
Should the talking stop at any time, STOP and QUICKLY say aloud "I'm just passing through, I wish to talk." If you still hear silence, flee. Leave, do not stop for anything, do not go home, don't stay at an inn, just keep moving, and sleep where your body drops. You will know in the morning if you've escaped.
If the voice in the hall comes back after you utter those words continue on. Upon reaching the cell all you will see is a windowless room with a person in the corner, speaking an unknown language, and cradling something. The person will only respond to one question: "What happens when they all come together?"
The person will then stare into your eyes and answers your question in horrifying detail. Many go mad in that very cell, some disappear soon after the meeting, and a few end their lives. But most do the worst thing and look upon the object in the person's hands. You will want to as well. Be warned, if you do your death will be that of cruelty and unrelenting horror. Your death will be in that room, by that person's hands.
This object is 1 of 538. They must never come together. Never.
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house in you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of the End". Should a look of child-like fear come over the workers face, you will then be taken to a cell in the building. It will be in a deep hidden section of the building. All you will hear is the sound of someone talking to themselves echo the halls. It is in a language that you will not understand, but your very soul will feel unspeakable fear.
Should the talking stop at any time, STOP and QUICKLY say aloud "I'm just passing through, I wish to talk." If you still hear silence, flee. Leave, do not stop for anything, do not go home, don't stay at an inn, just keep moving, and sleep where your body drops. You will know in the morning if you've escaped.
If the voice in the hall comes back after you utter those words continue on. Upon reaching the cell all you will see is a windowless room with a person in the corner, speaking an unknown language, and cradling something. The person will only respond to one question: "What happens when they all come together?"
The person will then stare into your eyes and answers your question in horrifying detail. Many go mad in that very cell, some disappear soon after the meeting, and a few end their lives. But most do the worst thing and look upon the object in the person's hands. You will want to as well. Be warned, if you do your death will be that of cruelty and unrelenting horror. Your death will be in that room, by that person's hands.
This object is 1 of 538. They must never come together. Never.
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2002
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- 43,346
I don’t have much time left. I’m hoping the blood will drain out of my wrists before they can get to me again, but I can’t be certain. Oh god, it’s so cold. I’m losing a lot of blood. But I have to finish. You have to read this. Maybe you can stop them.
It all started about a month ago. I was frantically trying to finish a writing assignment for Social Studies that was due next period, writing so fast I thought I’d snap my pen in two. I think the paper was on World War II. Amazing that I can remember things like that, through all of this, isn’t it? Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. As I wrote this paper, I began to notice something odd. I was making a lot of mistakes. You’ll have to excuse my digression for a moment, but I need to explain something: I never make mistakes when I write. Teachers use words like “impeccable” and “exceptional” to describe my conventions. That’s why I was finding this odd. And what’s more, they were all errors in capitalization, which served only to confuse me more. I hadn’t capitalized the beginnings of sentences, proper nouns anything. But, capitals were cropping up sporadically throughout my writing. I had words like “gErmans” or “alliaNce”, without the faintest clue why. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I quickly corrected my mistakes and finished the paper.
In fact, I didn’t even think of the incident when it happened again. I was commenting my friend’s new MySpace picture. In the middle of typing up some inside joke, I noticed that my capitalization was once again awry. Scanning through it, I noticed something else odd: The word “hello” had been capitalized entirely. Figuring I’d just go back and finish it when I was done typing, I started again. And again, my finger would hit the “shift” key unbidden. When I checked my typing again, I looked closer. My mind began to subconsciously piece together the capital letters. Imagine my surprise when I realized that it formed a message. It read, “GLAD WE HAVE YOUR ATTENTION”. What I did then could only be described as a double-take whilst being completely still. Not knowing what had begun then, I signed off and promptly went to sleep, chalking it up to an overactive imagination.
The third time was during Language Arts. I was writing an analysis of “The Iliad”, when it happened. A message spelled itself out once again: “YOU WILL HELP US”. Now I was nervous. My hand shook slightly as I tried to erase the mistakes. As soon as my eraser touched the page, indescribable pain lanced through my hand. It was as if someone was excising all the nerves in my fingers, and impaling my hand on a railroad spike. It was over before I had time to scream. My hand shaking even more, I continued writing. “DO NOT DISOBEY”, my mistakes spelled out. I think that’s when I sealed my fate. I wrote faster. Whatever happened, no matter what I had to do, I never wanted to feel that pain again. It must sound cowardly to you, but I assure you that you would have done the same in my place. That’s why you have to stop them.
At home, I continued the paper. They spoke to me again. “GET A CERAMIC BOWL”. Confused, I hastily got up and retrieved one. I continued writing. They continued their instructions. “PLACE A BOOK IN THE BOWL”. Trying to move quickly in order to avoid the pain, I tossed The Iliad in. “BURN IT”. I looked around my house quickly. Hurriedly, I grabbed a match, and lit the book aflame. The next directive was more ambiguous. “FEED IT”. I didn’t know what they meant. In the middle of my paper, I wrote “With what?” and continued writing. The answer unnerved me. “BLOOD”. I stared at the paper for a second. Then, before I knew what I was doing, I’d scored a long cut over the tip of my finger with my pen. I held it over the burning book, and a sick-looking mixture of ink and blood dripped slowly down. After about 5 minutes, a hum began to emanate from the book’s bloody funeral pyre. It started softly, and increased in volume until my whole body vibrated. I felt as if my entrails were turning to liquid, and I shut my eyes and covered my ears. I lost track of time then, but after what seemed like an eternity it ended. I opened my eyes to be greeted with a disturbing sight. The book had stopped burning, but it was no longer a book. The pages had formed into a blackened, papery tendril that had embedded itself into the floor. That wasn’t all that had changed, though. The tree outside the window of my bedroom had lost its leaves. The wood floor around the bowl was rotten. And finally, I realized to my horror that I my skin had wrinkles.
The next month continued in their demands. Every week, they instructed me to burn a book in the bowl, and add an offering. Once it was a fingernail. Then a tooth. They wanted a piece of steel. And every time I completed an iteration of the ritual, another tendril was growing from the bowl and into the ground. The tree by my house died. My floor grew soggy and completely rotten. And I- I’m covered in liver spots, and my hair has turned gray. I’ve grown old. I sit in my room all day, writing randomly, no longer forming words, just following their demands. But even through my servitude, some part of me rebelled. Whatever I’m creating in that bowl, whatever they’re forcing me to engender, it’s going to unmake reality. Its very presence is killing me. kIlling everyThing living around it. i have to Stop it. it might already be ToO late. i’m lOsing a lot of bLood, and i’m getting dizzy. hopefully i’ll be deAd before They gEt to me again. oh god, they’re in mY writing again. oh my gOd, it’s cold. i can feel my life Unraveling-consider this a wARning. my dEath will Only slow them down. they want to Undo cReation. don’t ever read their meSsages. if you do, theN you’ll be fOrced to finish what i started. and no matter What, there is no escape.
It all started about a month ago. I was frantically trying to finish a writing assignment for Social Studies that was due next period, writing so fast I thought I’d snap my pen in two. I think the paper was on World War II. Amazing that I can remember things like that, through all of this, isn’t it? Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. As I wrote this paper, I began to notice something odd. I was making a lot of mistakes. You’ll have to excuse my digression for a moment, but I need to explain something: I never make mistakes when I write. Teachers use words like “impeccable” and “exceptional” to describe my conventions. That’s why I was finding this odd. And what’s more, they were all errors in capitalization, which served only to confuse me more. I hadn’t capitalized the beginnings of sentences, proper nouns anything. But, capitals were cropping up sporadically throughout my writing. I had words like “gErmans” or “alliaNce”, without the faintest clue why. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I quickly corrected my mistakes and finished the paper.
In fact, I didn’t even think of the incident when it happened again. I was commenting my friend’s new MySpace picture. In the middle of typing up some inside joke, I noticed that my capitalization was once again awry. Scanning through it, I noticed something else odd: The word “hello” had been capitalized entirely. Figuring I’d just go back and finish it when I was done typing, I started again. And again, my finger would hit the “shift” key unbidden. When I checked my typing again, I looked closer. My mind began to subconsciously piece together the capital letters. Imagine my surprise when I realized that it formed a message. It read, “GLAD WE HAVE YOUR ATTENTION”. What I did then could only be described as a double-take whilst being completely still. Not knowing what had begun then, I signed off and promptly went to sleep, chalking it up to an overactive imagination.
The third time was during Language Arts. I was writing an analysis of “The Iliad”, when it happened. A message spelled itself out once again: “YOU WILL HELP US”. Now I was nervous. My hand shook slightly as I tried to erase the mistakes. As soon as my eraser touched the page, indescribable pain lanced through my hand. It was as if someone was excising all the nerves in my fingers, and impaling my hand on a railroad spike. It was over before I had time to scream. My hand shaking even more, I continued writing. “DO NOT DISOBEY”, my mistakes spelled out. I think that’s when I sealed my fate. I wrote faster. Whatever happened, no matter what I had to do, I never wanted to feel that pain again. It must sound cowardly to you, but I assure you that you would have done the same in my place. That’s why you have to stop them.
At home, I continued the paper. They spoke to me again. “GET A CERAMIC BOWL”. Confused, I hastily got up and retrieved one. I continued writing. They continued their instructions. “PLACE A BOOK IN THE BOWL”. Trying to move quickly in order to avoid the pain, I tossed The Iliad in. “BURN IT”. I looked around my house quickly. Hurriedly, I grabbed a match, and lit the book aflame. The next directive was more ambiguous. “FEED IT”. I didn’t know what they meant. In the middle of my paper, I wrote “With what?” and continued writing. The answer unnerved me. “BLOOD”. I stared at the paper for a second. Then, before I knew what I was doing, I’d scored a long cut over the tip of my finger with my pen. I held it over the burning book, and a sick-looking mixture of ink and blood dripped slowly down. After about 5 minutes, a hum began to emanate from the book’s bloody funeral pyre. It started softly, and increased in volume until my whole body vibrated. I felt as if my entrails were turning to liquid, and I shut my eyes and covered my ears. I lost track of time then, but after what seemed like an eternity it ended. I opened my eyes to be greeted with a disturbing sight. The book had stopped burning, but it was no longer a book. The pages had formed into a blackened, papery tendril that had embedded itself into the floor. That wasn’t all that had changed, though. The tree outside the window of my bedroom had lost its leaves. The wood floor around the bowl was rotten. And finally, I realized to my horror that I my skin had wrinkles.
The next month continued in their demands. Every week, they instructed me to burn a book in the bowl, and add an offering. Once it was a fingernail. Then a tooth. They wanted a piece of steel. And every time I completed an iteration of the ritual, another tendril was growing from the bowl and into the ground. The tree by my house died. My floor grew soggy and completely rotten. And I- I’m covered in liver spots, and my hair has turned gray. I’ve grown old. I sit in my room all day, writing randomly, no longer forming words, just following their demands. But even through my servitude, some part of me rebelled. Whatever I’m creating in that bowl, whatever they’re forcing me to engender, it’s going to unmake reality. Its very presence is killing me. kIlling everyThing living around it. i have to Stop it. it might already be ToO late. i’m lOsing a lot of bLood, and i’m getting dizzy. hopefully i’ll be deAd before They gEt to me again. oh god, they’re in mY writing again. oh my gOd, it’s cold. i can feel my life Unraveling-consider this a wARning. my dEath will Only slow them down. they want to Undo cReation. don’t ever read their meSsages. if you do, theN you’ll be fOrced to finish what i started. and no matter What, there is no escape.
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2002
- Posts
- 43,346
Rumor has it that every Halloween during the hours of 2am and 5am, there exists a void. You must stand in front of a mirror in a pitch black room with your gaze fixated on the mirror. If you remain in the room when the moment arrives, you will feel a chill seize your body. Place your right hand on the mirror and whisper "I accept." If done correctly, in the mirror, there will be a faint image of an infant with no flesh and pitch black eyes. He will stare directly into your soul and you will hear the buzzing of flies and nervous whispering.
You will not be able to make out the image in the mirror, but you will be filled with unspeakable terror. The infant will ask you five questions about events that have occurred within your life. His voice will sound like the rubbing of sandpaper on bone and sinew and will be devoid of all human emotion. For each question that you answer incorrectly, one of your five senses will be consumed and lost to you forever. For each question that is answered correctly, you will be able to recite the name of someone you know.
That person will be found dead the next morning, with their flesh removed and their eyes missing.
You will not be able to make out the image in the mirror, but you will be filled with unspeakable terror. The infant will ask you five questions about events that have occurred within your life. His voice will sound like the rubbing of sandpaper on bone and sinew and will be devoid of all human emotion. For each question that you answer incorrectly, one of your five senses will be consumed and lost to you forever. For each question that is answered correctly, you will be able to recite the name of someone you know.
That person will be found dead the next morning, with their flesh removed and their eyes missing.
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I like it. I are spooked.
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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If you’re lucky, you’ll never know about it. Your life will be spent in the bliss that can only come from the ignorance of the dark horrors that scratch and gnaw at the edges of reality. You’ll never hear the dark whispers coming from the closet; never feel the cold chill creeping along your spine. You’ll never pause at a turn in the hallway because you know that if you look down it, you’ll see something that shouldn’t be there. Something that creeps, stalks, and skulks in the shadows. Something that, once it sees you, will never stop coming for you. It won’t come for you when you are sleeping. It wants you to know it’s there. It wants you to hear the relentless sound of its footsteps, the panting of its breath. It wants to smell your fear, to hear your whimper, and to see the horror on your face as it approaches.
If you’ve any sense at all, you won’t try to find it. You’ll never pay attention to the sounds. You won’t try to catch sight of those things that flit by the corner of your eye. Your ignorance will be your shield and your protection. Do not be overly curious; discount the sounds as the quirks of an old house, or the heating system, or any other excuse you can think of. Whatever you do, don’t believe. Because once you believe, they’ll become real. Once you inquire into their existence, they will solidify. And once you finally uncover them for what they are…
They’ll come for you.
If you’ve any sense at all, you won’t try to find it. You’ll never pay attention to the sounds. You won’t try to catch sight of those things that flit by the corner of your eye. Your ignorance will be your shield and your protection. Do not be overly curious; discount the sounds as the quirks of an old house, or the heating system, or any other excuse you can think of. Whatever you do, don’t believe. Because once you believe, they’ll become real. Once you inquire into their existence, they will solidify. And once you finally uncover them for what they are…
They’ll come for you.
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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- Jan 26, 2002
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- 43,346
It has been reported that some victims of rape, during the act, would retreat into a fantasy world from which they could not WAKE UP. In this catatonic state, the victim lived in a world just like their normal one, except they weren’t being raped. The only way that they realized they needed to WAKE UP was a note they found in their fantasy world. It would tell them about their condition, and tell them to WAKE UP. Even then, it would often take months until they were ready to discard their fantasy world and PLEASE WAKE UP
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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There is a moment each leap year, at exactly three minutes past three on the morning of February twenty-ninth. If you possess the courage, await that moment in darkened room, with no other present. At that moment, the darkness will deepen. If you were to hold you hand directly before your face, you would not see a thing. But you must not do so. No, for that would be to waste the moment. Instead you must reach out, into that impenetrable darkness.
And it will reach out to you.
An unseen hand will grasp yours. You must not flinch away, nor tighten your grasp. To do so will only slough away more of the decrepit flesh that covers it, and anger its unseen owner. Remain perfectly still, as the withered fingers move over your palm, tracing unknown patterns. Do not move an inch as it crawls slowly up your arm. And most of all do not even breathe as it caresses your face, touching what cannot be seen.
Should you remain still through this, the hand will be withdrawn and a voice will speak, so close you can feel its breath on your face, smell the scent of decay it carries. It will ask you for one simple piece of information: your name. Answer truthfully. Answer truthfully, and the presence will retreat, leaving only a whisper in the air as the darkness lifts. "It is done."
From that day on, untold good fortune will be yours, and mysterious power. You will lack nothing, and have everything. But in a year, perhaps two, your eyes will sting in bright light, you will feel your skin begin to decay, and the sweet smell of death will be upon your breath...
And it will reach out to you.
An unseen hand will grasp yours. You must not flinch away, nor tighten your grasp. To do so will only slough away more of the decrepit flesh that covers it, and anger its unseen owner. Remain perfectly still, as the withered fingers move over your palm, tracing unknown patterns. Do not move an inch as it crawls slowly up your arm. And most of all do not even breathe as it caresses your face, touching what cannot be seen.
Should you remain still through this, the hand will be withdrawn and a voice will speak, so close you can feel its breath on your face, smell the scent of decay it carries. It will ask you for one simple piece of information: your name. Answer truthfully. Answer truthfully, and the presence will retreat, leaving only a whisper in the air as the darkness lifts. "It is done."
From that day on, untold good fortune will be yours, and mysterious power. You will lack nothing, and have everything. But in a year, perhaps two, your eyes will sting in bright light, you will feel your skin begin to decay, and the sweet smell of death will be upon your breath...
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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- Jan 26, 2002
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In the heart of Washington, there’s a house that used to be owned by a family of five. Nobody really knows what happened to them. Their neighbors at the time say that there were no signs of weirdness or fear in the family. The common testimony is that one day there was nothing wrong. The night that followed, there were very loud noises coming from the house, and although people in the area came to investigate what was keeping them up, the windows were blocked by millions of post-it notes, and the windows would not break. The following day, the house was empty.
Nobody has lived in that house since. But people have gone inside. In every bedroom, there is a mirror facing the corner of the room. If you turn it around, it won’t show your reflection. The area you’ll be standing in will be empty. They say that on the rare occasion, you’ll see the person who used to sleep in that room, mutilated and bandaged from head to toe...
Nobody has lived in that house since. But people have gone inside. In every bedroom, there is a mirror facing the corner of the room. If you turn it around, it won’t show your reflection. The area you’ll be standing in will be empty. They say that on the rare occasion, you’ll see the person who used to sleep in that room, mutilated and bandaged from head to toe...
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MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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There is an abandoned mental hospital at the top of a hill in Worcester, Massachusetts. Once every five years an old rusty box spring appears within the courtyard of the hospital. If you can sneak inside and sleep through the night on the bed, in the morning a man with a shirt that reads “observe and absolve” will take out his wallet and give you a picture. This picture will show you how you will die. If the picture is of the man standing before you, running won’t help.
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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so tempting, but I know I won't sleep tonight if I pay too much attention.
You can sleep when you're dead.
http://i66.photobucket.com/albums/h248/Decembers_Death/Cool%20Pictures/Bioh.jpg
MechaBlade
irrumatio king
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In Corona, California there once was a road known by most locals as the Never Ending Road. Specifically, the road’s true name was Lester Road. Now, over twenty years later, the landscape of Corona has changed, and the Never Ending Road is no more. However, years ago, Lester Road was an unlit road that people claimed became a never ending road when driven at night. The people who made such a drive were never seen from again.
The legend became so well-known that people refused to even drive Lester Road during the day. One night, like many teens my age, I drove up Lester Road, but only a short distance, and in my headlights it did look like it went on forever. Frightened, I quickly turned around, because if I continued up the road, I thought I might never return again.
Perpetuation of the legend convinced local law enforcement to investigate. Lester Road took a sharp left turn at its end, and there were no guard rails. Beyond the curve lay a canyon, and on the other side of the canyon was another road that lined up so well with Lester Road that when viewed from the correct angle, especially at night, the canyon vanished from sight, and the road seemed to continue on up and over the hill on the other side of the canyon. Upon investigation of the canyon, dozens of cars were found, fallen to their doom, with the decomposing bodies of the victims still strapped to their seats.
The legend became so well-known that people refused to even drive Lester Road during the day. One night, like many teens my age, I drove up Lester Road, but only a short distance, and in my headlights it did look like it went on forever. Frightened, I quickly turned around, because if I continued up the road, I thought I might never return again.
Perpetuation of the legend convinced local law enforcement to investigate. Lester Road took a sharp left turn at its end, and there were no guard rails. Beyond the curve lay a canyon, and on the other side of the canyon was another road that lined up so well with Lester Road that when viewed from the correct angle, especially at night, the canyon vanished from sight, and the road seemed to continue on up and over the hill on the other side of the canyon. Upon investigation of the canyon, dozens of cars were found, fallen to their doom, with the decomposing bodies of the victims still strapped to their seats.
- Joined
- Jun 8, 2005
- Posts
- 11,886
