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Realm of the Creepypasta

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Creepypastas are most invariably crap, but occasionally I find some interesting ones:

Spoiler

In the last decade and a half it's become infinitely easier to obtain exactly what you're looking for, by way of a couple of keystrokes. The Internet has made it all too simple to use a computer to change reality. An abundance of information is merely a search engine away, to the point where it's hard to imagine life as any different.

Yet, a generation ago, when the words 'streaming' and 'torrent' were meaningless save for conversations about water, people met face-to-face to conduct software swap parties, trading games and applications on Sharpie-labeled five-and-a-quarter inch floppies.

Of course, most of the time the meets were a way for frugal, community-minded individuals to trade popular games like King's Quest and Maniac Mansion amongst themselves. However, a few early programming talents designed their own computer games to share amongst their circle of acquaintances, who in turn would pass it on, until, if fun and well-designed enough, an independently-developed game had its place in the collection of aficionados across the country. Think of it as the 80's equivalent of a viral video.

Pale Luna, on the other hand, was never circulated outside of the San Francisco Bay Area. All known copies have been long disposed of, all computers that have ever run the game now detritus buried under layers of filth and polystyrene. This fact is attributed to a number of rather abstruse design choices made by its programmer.

Pale Luna was a text adventure in the vein of Zork and The Lurking Horror, at a time when said genre was swiftly going out of fashion. Upon booting the program, the player was presented with a screen almost completely blank, except for the text:

-You are in a dark room. Moonlight shines through the window.

-There is GOLD in the corner, along with a SHOVEL and a ROPE.

-There is a DOOR to the EAST.

-Command?

So began the game that one writer for a long-out-of-print fanzine decried as "enigmatic, nonsensical, and completely unplayable". As the only commands that the game would accept were PICK UP GOLD, PICK UP SHOVEL, PICK UP ROPE, OPEN DOOR, and GO EAST, the player was soon presented with the following:

-Reap your reward.

-PALE LUNA SMILES AT YOU.

-You are in a forest.There are paths to the NORTH, WEST, and EAST.

-Command?

What quickly infuriated the few who've played the game was the confusing and buggy nature of the second screen onward — only one of the directional decisions would be the correct one. For example, on this occasion, a command to go in a direction other than NORTH would lead to the system freezing, requiring the operator to hard reboot the entire computer.

Further, any subsequent screens seemed to merely repeat the above text, with the difference being only the directions available. Worse still, the standard text adventure commands appeared to be useless: The only accepted non-movement-related prompts were USE GOLD, which caused the game to display the message:

-Not here.

USE SHOVEL, which brought up:

-Not now.

And USE ROPE, which prompted the text:

-You've already used this.

Most who played the game progressed a couple of screens into it before becoming fed-up by having to constantly reboot and tossing the disk in disgust, writing off the experience as a shoddily programmed farce. However, there is one thing about the world of computers that remains true, no matter the era: some people who use them have way too much time on their hands.

A young man by the name of Michael Nevins decided to see if there was more to Pale Luna than what met the eye. Five hours and thirty-three screens worth of trial-and-error and unplugged computer cords later, he finally managed to make the game display different text. The text in this new area read:

-PALE LUNA SMILES WIDE

-There are no paths

-PALE LUNA SMILES WIDE

-The ground is soft

-PALE LUNA SMILES WIDE

-Here

-Command?

It was another hour still before Nevins stumbled upon the proper combination of phrases to make the game progress any further; DIG HOLE, DROP GOLD, then FILL HOLE. This caused the screen to display:

-Congratulations

—— 40.24248 ——

—— -121.4434 ——

Upon which the game ceased to accept commands, requiring the user to reboot one last time.

After some deliberation, Nevins came to the conclusion that the numbers referred to lines of latitude and longitude — the coordinates lead to a point in the sprawling forest that dominated the nearby Lassen Volcanic Park. As he possessed much more free time than sense, Nevins vowed to see Pale Luna through to its ending.

The next day, armed with a map, a compass, and a shovel, he navigated the park's trails, noting with amusement how each turn he made corresponded roughly to those that he took in-game.

Though he initially regretted bringing the cumbersome digging tool on a mere hunch, the path's similarity all but confirmed his suspicions that the journey would end with him face-to-face with an eccentric's buried treasure.

Out of breath after a tricky struggle to the coordinates, he was pleasantly surprised by a literal stumble upon a patch of uneven dirt. Shoveling as excitedly as he was, it would be an understatement to say that he was taken aback when his heavy strokes unearthed the badly-decomposing head of a blonde-haired little girl.

Nevins promptly reported the situation to the authorities. The girl was identified as Karen Paulsen, 11, reported as missing to the San Diego Police Department a year and a half prior.

Efforts were made to track down the programmer of Pale Luna, but the nearly-anonymous legal gray area in which the software swapping community operated inescapably led to many dead ends.

Collectors have been known to offer upwards of six figures for an authentic copy of the game.

The rest of Karen's body was never found.

http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Pale_Luna

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The Russian Sleep Experiment

http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/The_Russian_Sleep_Experiment

Spoiler

Russian researchers in the late 1940s kept five people awake for fifteen days using an experimental gas based stimulant. They were kept in a sealed environment to carefully monitor their oxygen intake so the gas didn't kill them, since it was toxic in high concentrations. This was before closed circuit cameras so they had only microphones and 5 inch thick glass porthole sized windows into the chamber to monitor them. The chamber was stocked with books, cots to sleep on but no bedding, running water and toilet, and enough dried food to last all five for over a month.

The test subjects were political prisoners deemed enemies of the state during World War II.

Everything was fine for the first five days; the subjects hardly complained having been promised (falsely) that they would be freed if they submitted to the test and did not sleep for 30 days. Their conversations and activities were monitored and it was noted that they continued to talk about increasingly traumatic incidents in their past, and the general tone of their conversations took on a darker aspect after the 4 day mark.

After five days they started to complain about the circumstances and events that lead them to where they were and started to demonstrate severe paranoia. They stopped talking to each other and began alternately whispering to the microphones and one way mirrored portholes. Oddly they all seemed to think they could win the trust of the experimenters by turning over their comrades, the other subjects in captivity with them. At first the researchers suspected this was an effect of the gas itself...

After nine days the first of them started screaming. He ran the length of the chamber repeatedly yelling at the top of his lungs for 3 hours straight, he continued attempting to scream but was only able to produce occasional squeaks. The researchers postulated that he had physically torn his vocal cords. The most surprising thing about this behavior is how the other captives reacted to it... or rather didn't react to it. They continued whispering to the microphones until the second of the captives started to scream. The 2 non-screaming captives took the books apart, smeared page after page with their own feces and pasted them calmly over the glass portholes. The screaming promptly stopped.

So did the whispering to the microphones.

After 3 more days passed. The researchers checked the microphones hourly to make sure they were working, since they thought it impossible that no sound could be coming with 5 people inside. The oxygen consumption in the chamber indicated that all 5 must still be alive. In fact it was the amount of oxygen 5 people would consume at a very heavy level of strenuous exercise. On the morning of the 14th day the researchers did something they said they would not do to get a reaction from the captives, they used the intercom inside the chamber, hoping to provoke any response from the captives they were afraid were either dead or vegetables.

They announced: "We are opening the chamber to test the microphones; step away from the door and lie flat on the floor or you will be shot. Compliance will earn one of you your immediate freedom."

To their surprise they heard a single phrase in a calm voice response: "We no longer want to be freed."

Debate broke out among the researchers and the military forces funding the research. Unable to provoke any more response using the intercom it was finally decided to open the chamber at midnight on the fifteenth day.

The chamber was flushed of the stimulant gas and filled with fresh air and immediately voices from the microphones began to object. 3 different voices began begging, as if pleading for the life of loved ones to turn the gas back on. The chamber was opened and soldiers sent in to retrieve the test subjects. They began to scream louder than ever, and so did the soldiers when they saw what was inside. Four of the five subjects were still alive, although no one could rightly call the state that any of them in 'life.'

The food rations past day 5 had not been so much as touched. There were chunks of meat from the dead test subject's thighs and chest stuffed into the drain in the center of the chamber, blocking the drain and allowing 4 inches of water to accumulate on the floor. Precisely how much of the water on the floor was actually blood was never determined. All four 'surviving' test subjects also had large portions of muscle and skin torn away from their bodies. The destruction of flesh and exposed bone on their finger tips indicated that the wounds were inflicted by hand, not with teeth as the researchers initially thought. Closer examination of the position and angles of the wounds indicated that most if not all of them were self-inflicted.

The abdominal organs below the ribcage of all four test subjects had been removed. While the heart, lungs and diaphragm remained in place, the skin and most of the muscles attached to the ribs had been ripped off, exposing the lungs through the ribcage. All the blood vessels and organs remained intact, they had just been taken out and laid on the floor, fanning out around the eviscerated but still living bodies of the subjects. The digestive tract of all four could be seen to be working, digesting food. It quickly became apparent that what they were digesting was their own flesh that they had ripped off and eaten over the course of days.

Most of the soldiers were Russian special operatives at the facility, but still many refused to return to the chamber to remove the test subjects. They continued to scream to be left in the chamber and alternately begged and demanded that the gas be turned back on, lest they fall asleep...

To everyone's surprise the test subjects put up a fierce fight in the process of being removed from the chamber. One of the Russian soldiers died from having his throat ripped out, another was gravely injured by having his testicles ripped off and an artery in his leg severed by one of the subject's teeth. Another 5 of the soldiers lost their lives if you count ones that committed suicide in the weeks following the incident.

In the struggle one of the four living subjects had his spleen ruptured and he bled out almost immediately. The medical researchers attempted to sedate him but this proved impossible. He was injected with more than ten times the human dose of a morphine derivative and still fought like a cornered animal, breaking the ribs and arm of one doctor. When heart was seen to beat for a full two minutes after he had bled out to the point there was more air in his vascular system than blood. Even after it stopped he continued to scream and flail for another 3 minutes, struggling to attack anyone in reach and just repeating the word "MORE" over and over, weaker and weaker, until he finally fell silent.

The surviving three test subjects were heavily restrained and moved to a medical facility, the two with intact vocal cords continuously begging for the gas demanding to be kept awake...

The most injured of the three was taken to the only surgical operating room that the facility had. In the process of preparing the subject to have his organs placed back within his body it was found that he was effectively immune to the sedative they had given him to prepare him for the surgery. He fought furiously against his restraints when the anesthetic gas was brought out to put him under. He managed to tear most of the way through a 4 inch wide leather strap on one wrist, even through the weight of a 200 pound soldier holding that wrist as well. It took only a little more anesthetic than normal to put him under, and the instant his eyelids fluttered and closed, his heart stopped. In the autopsy of the test subject that died on the operating table it was found that his blood had triple the normal level of oxygen. His muscles that were still attached to his skeleton were badly torn and he had broken 9 bones in his struggle to not be subdued. Most of them were from the force his own muscles had exerted on them.

The second survivor had been the first of the group of five to start screaming. His vocal cords destroyed he was unable to beg or object to surgery, and he only reacted by shaking his head violently in disapproval when the anesthetic gas was brought near him. He shook his head yes when someone suggested, reluctantly, they try the surgery without anesthetic, and did not react for the entire 6 hour procedure of replacing his abdominal organs and attempting to cover them with what remained of his skin. The surgeon presiding stated repeatedly that it should be medically possible for the patient to still be alive. One terrified nurse assisting the surgery stated that she had seen the patients mouth curl into a smile several times, whenever his eyes met hers.

When the surgery ended the subject looked at the surgeon and began to wheeze loudly, attempting to talk while struggling. Assuming this must be something of drastic importance the surgeon had a pen and pad fetched so the patient could write his message. It was simple. "Keep cutting."

The other two test subjects were given the same surgery, both without anesthetic as well. Although they had to be injected with a paralytic for the duration of the operation. The surgeon found it impossible to perform the operation while the patients laughed continuously. Once paralyzed the subjects could only follow the attending researchers with their eyes. The paralytic cleared their system in an abnormally short period of time and they were soon trying to escape their bonds. The moment they could speak they were again asking for the stimulant gas. The researchers tried asking why they had injured themselves, why they had ripped out their own guts and why they wanted to be given the gas again.

Only one response was given: "I must remain awake."

All three subject's restraints were reinforced and they were placed back into the chamber awaiting determination as to what should be done with them. The researchers, facing the wrath of their military 'benefactors' for having failed the stated goals of their project considered euthanizing the surviving subjects. The commanding officer, an ex-KGB instead saw potential, and wanted to see what would happen if they were put back on the gas. The researchers strongly objected, but were overruled.

In preparation for being sealed in the chamber again the subjects were connected to an EEG monitor and had their restraints padded for long term confinement. To everyone's surprise all three stopped struggling the moment it was let slip that they were going back on the gas. It was obvious that at this point all three were putting up a great struggle to stay awake. One of subjects that could speak was humming loudly and continuously; the mute subject was straining his legs against the leather bonds with all his might, first left, then right, then left again for something to focus on. The remaining subject was holding his head off his pillow and blinking rapidly. Having been the first to be wired for EEG most of the researchers were monitoring his brain waves in surprise. They were normal most of the time but sometimes flat lined inexplicably. It looked as if he were repeatedly suffering brain death, before returning to normal. As they focused on paper scrolling out of the brainwave monitor only one nurse saw his eyes slip shut at the same moment his head hit the pillow. His brainwaves immediately changed to that of deep sleep, then flatlined for the last time as his heart simultaneously stopped.

The only remaining subject that could speak started screaming to be sealed in now. His brainwaves showed the same flatlines as one who had just died from falling asleep. The commander gave the order to seal the chamber with both subjects inside, as well as 3 researchers. One of the named three immediately drew his gun and shot the commander point blank between the eyes, then turned the gun on the mute subject and blew his brains out as well.

He pointed his gun at the remaining subject, still restrained to a bed as the remaining members of the medical and research team fled the room. "I won't be locked in here with these things! Not with you!" he screamed at the man strapped to the table. "WHAT ARE YOU?" he demanded. "I must know!"

The subject smiled.

"Have you forgotten so easily?" The subject asked. "We are you. We are the madness that lurks within you all, begging to be free at every moment in your deepest animal mind. We are what you hide from in your beds every night. We are what you sedate into silence and paralysis when you go to the nocturnal haven where we cannot tread."

The researcher paused. Then aimed at the subject's heart and fired. The EEG flatlined as the subject weakly choked out, "So... nearly... free..."

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Piper Maru said:

Stalin's Bedtime Story

Never liked this one to be honest. The ending is just a big bag of 'wat' with nonsense talk, which ruins it in my opinion.

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Some SCPs are pretty dumb, but usually I like the well thought out realistic ones. My favorite one would have to be 096 (the one where he kills the last person to see his face), not because of the character itself, but the story surrounding it.

It goes along the lines of a massive breakout where 096 broke out and killed a bunch of people because some dude had a photograph with 096 way in the background. It was a pretty good read and I recommend it! http://www.scp-wiki.net/incident-096-1-a

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These ones are pretty good. Neither of them are based around the most original ideas ever, but they're well-written and excellently narrated:-



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Those are some good ones, DoomUK, thank you so much for sharing!

Huntsville Camping Trip

http://www.creepypasta.com/huntsville-camping-trip/

Spoiler

I went camping about 3 weekends ago in the Huntsville national forest in Texas. Me and 3 friends that came home for the weekend, they are all in college and usually we all get together at least once a year, old friends from high school. For the camping trip we planned to go backpacking deep in the forest, live off of fish that we catch and animals that we can trap. We have been doing this for awhile in Texas and in numerous places, Arizona, Colorado (if anyone is familiar with the Spanish peaks there), New Mexico, so we‘re pretty much used to anything you‘d encounter out there.

It was my turn to pick where we went camping, so I chose Huntsville (more accurately it’s Huntsville/New Waverly). So we drive up there park our car in a camping park spot and start walking off into the forest. We had some laughs along the way, everyone catching up with each other’s lives. We walked until it started to get dark and set up camp where we stopped. Everyone gathered wood to make a fire and we set our tent up. And we do what we always do: try and scare each other with weird stories.

Around this time we started to smell something very faint. It was noticeable, but not overbearing. We couldn’t put our finger on what it was, so we just carried on. Mike had to go piss and he walked off in the forest. A second later he come running back, piss all down his jeans like he’d missed really bad. Immediately we all crack up and throw some jokes at him. Then we noticed that he was white as snow and trying to catch his breath. He starts screaming for us to follow him, and runs off.

We all get serious and go follow him, not knowing what the problem was. We start to hear a faint scream and crying in the distance, in the direction we were running. It was pitch black away from the camp and Mike had the only flash light (we left ours at the camp, he had his from his trip taking a piss), so at this stage we didn’t have much choice but to follow the light, which was frantically pointing here and there in front of him.

The scream gets closer and Mike starts to slow down. We then notice a ratty old cabin that looked like it was abandoned, except for a faint light that we could see from one of the old mildew covered windows. The crying was intense: whoever it was couldn’t breathe enough to let out a full yell. We all followed Mike up to the front door and we could all hear the crying from inside. As soon as he knocked on the door it stopped.

We all waited and heard really heavy footsteps walking fast to the door. There was a giant slam against the door and the sound of a bolt unlocking. Then nothing. We waited for a bit, knocked a few more times, but still nothing happened. We walked around the house (there was no fucking way any of us were leaving each other’s side) and noticed a window, which was a good way up. Alex took a deep breath and said asked us to give him a boost so he could see inside. Me and Mike lifted him up to the window. We watched him brush away dirt and webs from the window and place his face close to the window to try and see something.


There was a quick beat. Then suddenly he breathed in fast and let out a loud scream. Then he fell back from the window, screaming bloody murder the whole way. We all tried to calm him down but he was hysterical. We went to him but he started to shake, punch, kick, you name it, and then took off towards the camp.

None of us wanted to be separated so we all ran close behind him. We caught up to him and grabbed him and set him down. The fire was dying out so I grabbed some nearby wood that we collected added it to the fire. My hands were shaking and I had to do something. I went back to Alex and we all tried to calm him down. He wouldn’t he kept screaming and was breathing so hard that he eventually fainted.
All of us are terrified now, and we all kept the fire high until sunrise. Periodically Alex kept waking up, screaming just like before. By sunrise he was up and looked catatonic, just mumbling to himself and whimpering.

Me and Mike decide to go look at the cabin now it was daylight. We searched where we thought it was, except there was nothing there. Nothing at all. The indistinct smell from last night had now grown into a very strong smell of something dead, something stale. We headed back to the camping site. When we got there we found Alex had chewed into the sides of his face and swallowed so much blood that he was throwing up. John was at his back, and he looked like he was about to die from exhaustion. I guess we all looked that way, I just didn’t notice until I saw his face. Alex said quietly that we need to leave. Now.

We all started to pack up the tent. It started to rain really heavily (it was about noon) and the sky started to grow really dark. Alex started to go into a panic. He went and grabbed a big stick and yelled at us to leave it and leave, now, or he‘d knock us out and drag us out of there himself. Mike started to yell at him, and they started to fight. We broke it up and finished packing, and then started to make our way back. After a little while we arrived at a creek we had crossed the previous day, only it was flooded over, and the water was moving to fast for us to cross it. Alex started to scream again, yelling at Mike for taking his time packing up the tent when we could have gotten out of here. This went on for a while until we finally convinced Alex to calm down and tell us what happened.

He said as soon as he put his face to the glass, a face on the other side did the same thing, and started to smile really big. It had dark eyes and a dark mouth which was much bigger then Alex’s, as the smile got as large as it could. A giant shadow behind it swung something down and sliced it‘s face off. The face was stuck to the window, and he said it started to laugh quietly as it slid down. Mike, still pissed off (and though he wouldn‘t admit it, beginning to get freaked out), started to argue with him again. We eventually started to follow the creek for a way to cross.

We then started to see toys floating in the creek. Really old toys, old Barbie dolls and baby dolls. This wasn’t like any old trash floating in the creek, though… this was a lot of barbies, a lot of baby dolls. One washed towards the side and Mike picked it up. It had some kind of voice chip that was dying and started to say some gurgling words we couldn’t understand, followed by it’s sad excuse for laughter. Then it sounded like it was whispering. We thought the batteries must be dying, he threw it down.

We kept going, and the sun was starting to set. Alex was freaking out more now, and was whimpering and breathing heavily. We all started to see shadows move behind trees, something we all called BS on until we all were seeing it. It was barely light out and we stop as we see the cabin right in front of us. None of us knows what to think. Mike says “This is bull, I’m going in there.” Alex tries to stop him. We all do, all of us just wanted to go home. Mike says to all of us to fuck off, do our own thing, he doesn’t care anymore, this is all bull.

We start to hear hundreds of the same sort baby doll as before, laughing, whispering and trying to sing. We start to move forward past the cabin, all of us, and kept pushing forward. We smelled something dead in the air, something stale. The same something as before. We started to hear something crying, and something screaming. We kept on going. We eventually crossed the creek and left the woods. We get back to our vehicle and got in. Its pitch black, and we drive. We are about to get on the 45 to Houston but the road is under construction and can’t be accessed. It points to a detour. As we head towards the detour it seems to be small, bumpy dirt road going into the woods.

We then see a young girl come up to us. She looks like she was in trouble, young and pretty. She approaches the passenger side door and she looks like she‘s really drugged up, or beaten up. Alex doesn’t roll down the windows, nor does he open the door. She reaches for the handle and he immediately locks it. She puts her face on the window and starts to smile really big. We floor it, Alex starts to cry and scream and we are all breathing heavy. We finally cut on a street that takes us to the 45 and we take it the whole way. When we get back to my apartment everyone doesn’t know what to say and we all break apart and go our separate ways.

Mike messages me later and says he is going to go back. I try to convince him not to and all he does is say it was our own minds that were screwing with us. I think he just went to prove to himself he wasn’t scared. I can smell that stench everywhere now. I don’t go out anymore, I just stay in and don’t answer the door. Last week everyone I met was acting really strange, people that I knew for a long time and total strangers. My own dad, when I went to his place to eat supper with him he just watched me, strangely, when I was sitting down. He didn’t say a word the whole time. I kept asking him “What’s wrong?” He just slowly shook his head.

When I was leaving to go home I turned to wave. He had black eyes and an open mouth like he was in pain. When I started to walk back he shut the door and bolted it. I stayed there knocking and knocking. Nothing. I called him, his phone was disconnected. I even called the police. Halfway through the questions they were asking me the connection started to fade into static. I could hear a faint mumbling, singing and laughing.

Mike has completely vanished. There is not even a record of him being alive. When I call Alex’s house they talk to me like I’m some salesman. They say they don’t know any Alex and to please stop calling. The person who tells me that is Alex‘s mother. I can’t get ahold of John. Someone knocked on my door and when I went to look I saw a face completely covering the peephole and a giant smile started to form.

I called the cops again and instead of it turning into static they got really strange. “Sir, are you affected by any drugs at the moment?” “No.” “Are you coming home anytime soon?” “Excuse me?” “Come home.” and the phone call ended. My mail slot swings every now and then. Someone is sliding pieces of baby dolls through it. I try to call people now and all I can hear is static and bad baby doll noises and this crying and screaming. My TV is busted but when I go to piss I can hear it on. I might be going insane.

Whoever lives above me started to scream in pain and crying deeply recently. I hear giant footsteps from their apartment, I hear bangs and something falling to the ground. From the neighbours to the right of my apartment I hear what sounds like a baby that never gets tended too and then it sounds like a baby doll whose batteries are dying. My phone has been ringing now and it’s Alex telling me things in a language that I have never heard before, nor could even manage to repeat. I kept getting emails of pictures of black and small colorations, now I can’t even access my email. Someone knocks on the door, then they slam against it. I hear the bolts unlocking one by one and I run to make sure to lock all of them back.

Then, I sit down and begin to cry.

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My Creepypasta Wiki profile Has links to a ton of pastas I actually like (which should mean something, since I look down on most of it as literary abcess from the asscrack of the internet), and a ton that I wrote, myself.

Actually, I never really wrote creepypasta per-se. I just couldn't get my short stories published and decided "fuck it, post 'em online instead as a writing portfolio".

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Kirby said:

Admittedly I couldn't help myself ;)

On topic we did have this thread for a while which was a interesting collection of creepy clips plus some creepypasta for your viewing pleasure. I don't actively go reading creepypasta these days, though if one gets sent across my way I'll give it a go through.

I've admittedly been reading in full the articles at the SCP Foundation Wiki and been finding some fascinating stories to read through - hell I haven't even got past the first series of SCP's yet - the addendums and embedded stories are the real intrigue beyond the descriptions, like this one for example.

I'm a big fan of the SCP Foundation. Read almost everything in there. Have you read " Love Hate" "Stitches" "Incursion" yet? And the fact that there are a mixture of SCP/Tales genres, search "Cart can, can cart" "Dr. Ikari I presume". Or "The war of doctors".

If you ask me, SCP-513 is the scariest, because of the last part of the document :

You've seen it, now he can hear you.
You've touched it, now he can see you.
Never ring it. If you hear it,
He can touch you.

Number second would be SCP-178.

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Impie said:

My Creepypasta Wiki profile Has links to a ton of pastas I actually like (which should mean something, since I look down on most of it as literary abcess from the asscrack of the internet), and a ton that I wrote, myself.

Actually, I never really wrote creepypasta per-se. I just couldn't get my short stories published and decided "fuck it, post 'em online instead as a writing portfolio".


Great stuff, thanks for sharing!

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Here's a particular spooky one. It's a lengthy one, but well worth the listen. It's well written and engagingly narrated. A good old fashioned ghost story!

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Kirby said:

On topic we did have this thread for a while which was a interesting collection of creepy clips plus some creepypasta for your viewing pleasure.


Annnd the last thing in that thread was me posting the music video to NIN's Happiness In Slavery, which was one of the most "disturbing" videos I'd ever seen at that point. Nice way to kill a thread 15 year old self.

And speaking of videos, I thought Marble Hornets could get pretty intense at times.

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I like Marble Hornets but it seemed more like a mystery with paranormal elements than horror to me. Not that it doesn't have frightening moments, but a lot of the charm comes from seeing pieces of the puzzle come together, trying to figure out who totheark, Masky, Hoodie, the Operator et. al. are and what they want.

The same guys who made Marble Hornets are making another series called Clear Lakes 44 on the same channel. So far I don't think there's been enough information given to piece together what it is about, but it seems to be at least set in the same universe due to the presence of an "official" website for the film Marble Hornets that went up shortly before the new series started. It has a lot of hidden pages with ARG stuff that reference Clear Lakes 44, especially the number 44 which has been recurring throughout both series.

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The Call of the Revenant

http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/The_Call_of_the_Revenant

Spoiler

September 21st, 1945.

To Abigail.

It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, since I got to hear your laugh, since I got to see you smile. I bet you’re still as gorgeous as when I met you.

Sadly I can’t say the same about me.

Abigail, you have no idea how much I hate writing this, but I don’t want to shock you when you see me in the flesh. I’ve been wounded very seriously, though I haven’t really let it sink in yet. I’m pretty sure that I’m close to a breakdown, so I need to get this all out of my system.

I was with three others: McKamey, Corrigan and Bennett. All three were older and more experienced than I was, having all been some of the first boys to sign on willingly, whereas I got drafted a few years later.

McKamey was the oldest of our group, and he took it upon himself to teach me how to survive under fire. I never would have made it past the first weeks if it hadn’t been for him.

Corrigan was the second oldest of the group, and had been one of the first in the trenches. He had done some incredible things, but the stuff he saw while in the trenches changed him. He was a silent, morose man and I never did learn much about him beyond his name and where he had been stationed.

You know how there are some people that just rub you the wrong way? Bennett was one of those guys. He was from some well-to-do family and, if I had to bet money, he had probably tried to bribe the drafters to let him stay in America. I’ve never met a more nagging, self-centered son of a bitch in my life.

And I was stuck with him, and we clashed constantly over the most trivial things.

But, thankfully, I had McKamey’s company and he was a decent guy. He told good jokes, shared his stash of cigars with us and acted as the leader of our little band, which I’m sure ruffled Bennett’s feathers.

You remember the last letter I sent you, the one where I said that I’d be coming home a few weeks early? I’m sad to say that I’ve been delayed, although it was for a good reason.

You see, even though Hitler was dead and most of his empire had fallen, there were still some rats in the rubble and some of us were called back to provide some pest control.

We were on the trail of Johann Hess and some of his toadies. Hess, a mean son-of-a-bitch Nazi if ever there was one, the kind of man who could smile at you like he was your friend, shoot you in the gut as he did and not ever take his eyes off yours.

Hess was one of the last remaining scumbags in Hitler’s higher echelon, from what I was told, it sounded like he was a member of Hitler’s occult group, the Thule Society.

I didn’t know much about it when we went in, but now I’ve learned that Hitler was obsessed with various forms of magic; alchemy, voodoo, pagan rites, even the Jewish Kabbalah that some say Rabbi Loeb of Prague used to make a golem. Pretty fucking crazy, right?

I also found out that the Thule Society had been conducting global investigations in countries that they deemed “places of interest”—Africa, Haiti, Greenland, Scotland and Saudi Arabia to be precise.

Looking back, I don’t think that knowing any of this beforehand would have helped, I’m not the most historically versed gent in the world and I wouldn’t have cared or remembered about the info, all I was concerned with at the time was bagging Hess.

But I can’t stop myself from wondering if things might’ve gone differently if my comrades and I had even the slightest inkling as to what we were up against.

We were crossing through the Vishka forest, a pretty big place, big enough so that it seems like it goes on forever. It’s filled with the tallest trees that I’ve ever seen and it was so damn quiet in there. I never saw a single fox, or rabbit, or bird while I was in there and the others didn’t see anything either.

We had been in the forest for about a day, and the sun was going down. It was getting colder and the sounds of animals were getting louder as we went deeper.

“Why can’t that stupid kraut just surrender? We’ve been here too damned long,” whined Bennett, earning him a glare from McKamey.

“Shut it, Bennett,” he growled, “We might actually catch him if you kept quiet.”

Bennett scowled, but did as he was told, that was another thing about him that I didn’t like, he was a coward, and cowards have no place in the trenches or on the battlefield.

He stayed silent until we set up camp. The spot we picked was a small hill, surrounded by trees on all sides and littered with old stones. that jutted up from the ground in such a way as to provide excellent cover should we come under fire.

I had unrolled my bedroll, and was just beginning to lie down, when I heard it: a long, low, whistling howl that seemed to split the night like a missile through a cloud cover.

Each of us started and turned out heads in the direction of the howl. The sound had come from the North of the hill, which was densely wooded, save for a clearing that was big enough to be seen from our vantage point.

The howl died down quickly, but none of us moved or spoke for a good few minutes.

The one who broke the silence was Bennett, who asked, “What the hell was that?” in a low, trembling voice; I could see the desire to run away on his face as clear as day.

“I don’t know, but it didn’t sound like any wolf I’ve ever heard,” muttered Corrigan, his hand straying to his sidearm.

“D’you think Hess and his goons were the ones making those sounds?” I asked McKamey.

The old soldier opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by the sounds of distant gunfire. The racket stopped—or was cut off—abruptly, and the suddenness of it made sure that any hopes that we had of getting some shut-eye were dashed.

For the next few hours we sat crouched behind some of the stones, our guns at the ready. My grip on my rifle was so tight it was a wonder I was able to uncurl my fingers after the first hour had passed.

The feeling of dread that hung over the camp was like fog, I could taste it in the back of my throat like bad medicine.

I’ve learned to be wary the hard way, Abigail. I learned from watching my comrades get cut down in ambushes, from waiting in muddy trenches and listening to the biplanes roar overhead, from seeing the shadowed SS soldiers pouring out from their tanks like jackbooted ants.

I felt like I was under attack, but there were no bullets or bombs or… anything. I couldn’t even hear the birds in the trees, all that I could hear was the wind sighing through the trees.

My fellow soldiers were looking itchy, too. They fingered their triggers or plucked at their fatigues restlessly. Eventually McKamey and Corrigan ventured a ways down the hill to gather firewood while Bennett and I watched their backs.

Once the fire was lit, I let its warmth loosen my joints and tried to calm down as best I could. But the unease was still coiled around my heart like a python.

I decided to get up and pace the camp, letting the fire’s glow illuminate my path. It was this glow that led me to notice something about our surroundings that I hadn’t picked up on before: the stones weren’t spaced naturally, there was an artificiality about their positions and distance apart that I hadn’t noticed before.

The stones were arranged in a pattern.

I paced it out and drew a mental picture, and what I got the impression of was that the stones formed a crude spiral, with our campfire resting in the center.

Something about that mental picture made me shudder. I don’t know what it was, but it ratcheted up the tension in my body quickly.

I decided to stop looking around and return to the campfire.

I was just getting to the point where I could feel the heat on my cold cheeks when we all heard the sounds of panicked gasping and heavy footfalls crashing through the undergrowth.

We barely had time to ready our guns before a thin, wild-eyed man leaped out from the darkness and fell to the ground, panting and wheezing. In the fire’s light, I could see the black cloth coat, the muddy jackboots and the silver swastika pinned to his lapel.

Then the man raised his head and said, in thickly accented English, “Please, for the love of God, protect me.”

We all stared at him and recognized the man to be Johann Hess, the man we were after.

Bennett was, surprisingly, the first to move forwards.

“Well, well, well, looks like we don’t have to find the kraut, ‘cause the kraut found us!”

He laughed at his own joke, but the rest of us were too stunned to respond, not just by Hess’ sudden appearance, but by the animal terror that burned behind his eyes in place of the cold, uncaring gaze that I had seen in his photos.

“You have to get me out of here!” he cried again, getting to his knees, “It won’t be long before-”

Bennett slugged him in the face with a growl of, “Shut it, you Nazi piece of shit! We’re gonna get you outta here, alright, but we ain’t takin’ you to Tahiti. You’re going away for a long damn time.”

“I don’t care!” shouted Hess, ignoring the blood running down his face, “It’s coming!”

“What’s coming?” asked McKamey, intervening before Bennett could hit him again. He crouched next to the terrified man and repeated the question in a calm voice.

Hess let out a whimper and I was shocked to see actual tears in his eyes.

“We were running from you people.” began Hess, “There is a place, not far from here, that’s a designated bunker, only a select few of us know about it. It’s near the clearing…”

“Who else is with you?” asked McKamey, his voice still soft.

“Aurich Gimmel, Arnold Kraus and Emil Toht,” said Hess, his voice still teetering near hysteria.

“Where are they?” asked Corrigan, sounding impatient.

The Nazi shook his head, “Dead. All dead. It took them.”

A stillness fell over the camp the moment those words left his lips and I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” asked Bennett, trying to mask his growing fear and failing.

Hess’ breathing began to quicken and he raised his dirty, cut-covered hand to his mouth and bit at his knuckles. I watched as he sobbed brokenly through his teeth.

“We w-were at the bunker,” he whimpered, “We didn’t know that it was a place of interest until later. It was built near an old graveyard, one that was here before the Christians came, a pagan burial ground.”

Bennett started to interrupt, but a harsh “shh” from McKamey silenced him.

“Some of the men who had been there previously had been excavating it.” continued Hess, his eyes glazing over as his hand dropped limply to the ground.

“They had found several items of personal interest to the Fuhrer: old grimoires, ceremonial daggers and… and an iron coffin. An iron coffin inscribed with old runes and held shut with chains. I had been there previously and had overseen some of the work before I was called back.”

Hess swallowed thickly and shuddered. I could feel the cold begin to nip at my fingertips and I shivered.

“When we returned we found that everyone in the bunker was dead. They had been... t-torn apart like-like some wild animal had been at them. And there were bullet casings everywhere. A whole field of them, but we didn’t find any extra bodies. There weren’t even any footprints in the blood, all of the men had been killed before they could even run!”

Off in the distance, I thought I heard something moving through the trees.

“And... and the coffin... it was open and... and it was empty,” continued Hess, “Then we heard it, moving in the darkness. Something fast and not human, an untermenschen, but... not.”

He was silent for a moment and it took some prodding to get him talking again.

“Gimmel tried to fire on it, but it caught his head in its hands and… crushed it like it was made of clay! We ran, but it caught Toht, then Kraus, and it dragged them away.”

“To do what?” asked McKamey, his face stony.

“Why are you indulging him?” snarled Bennett, “He’s lying to us, just shoot him!”

“Bennett, shut up.” said Corrigan, his voice steely.

Bennett rounded on him and his hand went to his gun, “Try something, you stupid, cowardly shitheel.”

Corrigan narrowed his eyes and took a step forwards, “Put the gun away, rich boy, then we’ll see who’s a coward.”

Their bickering grew in volume and intensity, but my eyes were still fixed on Hess, who was shaking like a whipped dog hearing the sound of a belt. His wide eyes glanced from one end of the camp to the other, hardly blinking.

McKamey stood up and went over to intercede, so I was the only one within hearing distance to hear what Hess whispered next.

“The Revenant. The undying ghoul. They released it, now it's after me, to take me and eat my flesh, to take my soul and live even longer. To live forever and keep eating. Untoten. It knows my name… it knows my name…”

Somewhere close by, a twig snapped. Then the cold grew worse, spreading deeper into my bones like liquid.

The wind picked up and the fire guttered, dimmed, then flared upwards like a spear of light.

“Heeeeessssss…”

The voice came up into the camp from all sides, coming in on the cold breeze that stirred the thin branches of the trees and made the leaves rustle. Despite this noise, the voice was still distinct above all else.

It was chilling. The voice was so lonely, and yet so angry, it made me want to run as fast as I could away from the camp.

“You see?!” shouted Hess, getting to his feet and pointing to the shadows that lay just outside of our campfire, “It’s here, it came for Kraus, it came for Gimmel, it came for Toht and now it’s coming for me, mein Gott in Himmel it’s almost here!”

Corrigan grabbed the Nazi and threw him to the ground as the rest of us rose to our feet and readied our guns, training them at the deep darkness around us.

There was a moment of silence in which I could hear nothing but my own heartbeat, then the voice called out again, closer, but still impossible to pinpoint.

“Hesssss…”

Bennett, still hot from his argument, was the first to fire. Letting off a spray of lead that was swallowed up by the darkness. Bennett kept firing until his gun clicked empty, and by that time he was soaked in sweat and his eyes were wild.

“Heeeessss…”

The voice was even closer, and it seemed to me that all of the loneliness and anger that I had heard before had transformed into something else: It sounded hungry.

“Come out and fight, you coward!” roared Bennett, searching his pockets for more ammo.

Just as he had pulled out a handful of bullets, and was starting to reload, a figure shambled out from the deep shadows and came into the light.

Have you ever seen one of those dime-store horror comics before? The ones that have zombies or living corpses on the covers? Those illustrated monsters are as close as I can get to a good comparison of the creature that came into our camp that night.

It was tall, and dressed in tattered rags which flapped around its gaunt body in the wind. Its skin was all dried out, brown like leather, and wrinkled like old newspaper. Its lips were shriveled away into nothing, and its teeth were white, far too white to belong to something that had been dead for so long.

The rest of its face was skeletal, caved in in some spots and I could see tiny ribbons of fungus in the holes where bone had been.

It didn’t have eyes either, just two deep, dark sockets that stared ahead into space. But, despite this, I got the feeling that it could see fine.

It took everyone a minute for what we were seeing to fully sink in, and by then the Revenant had already made its way into the heart of the camp.

Bennett was the first one to scream, and his screaming jolted us out of or horrified stupor. McKamey, Corrigan and I all aimed our guns at the thing and fired, the bullets tore through the Revenant in tiny flurries of dust, but it kept coming.

“Hessss…” it said, opening its lipless maw and pointing a withered finger at the cowering nazi, who broke out into what sounded like a prayer.

Corrigan was the first to run out of bullets, and when that happened he opted to try attacking it with his bowie knife. He unsheathed it and ran at the Revenant, bringing it up and then down in a deadly arc as he did.

The Revenant caught the knife with one hand and tore it free from Corrigan’s grip. The sound of his fingers snapping like sticks echoed across the camp.

Corrigan howled in agony and fell to his knees, and I could see the blood gushing from the pulped mess that had once been his hand.

Then the Revenant grabbed Corrigan by the scruff, hauled him up off the ground with one hand, and threw him, still screaming, into the fire.

I can still smell his hair burning.

Bennett was the next to die. The Revenant simply lashed out with one hand and broke the poor bastard’s neck.

That left me, McKamey and Hess.

The Revenant moved closer, still hissing Hess’ name. McKamey fired off a few more shots at close range, but the bullets still had no effect on it. So he reached for one of his emergency flares, probably hoping to light the living corpse on fire.

But Hess moved quicker. He reached around and unsheathed McKamey’s knife, then he held it to his throat.

Turning to me, he barked, “Stop that monster or your friend dies!”

What could I do? I couldn’t let my only real friend in Godforsaken country die. So I reached out and took the flare from his belt, then I lit it up and faced the undead monster.

The Revenant was close enough now for me to see the atrophied muscles beneath its leathery hide move and contract. Its breath fell upon me and it was so cold it burned.

Then it opened its mouth once more, and said, in that awful whispering hiss of a voice.

“Jooohhhnnnnnn…”

Screaming in terror and horror, I lifted the flare up and threw it as hard as I could.

The red flame made contact with the dried rags that clung to the Revenant’s body and they burst into flame.

But the Revenant kept coming, even as smoke began to drift up through its hollow eyes and rotted mouth, even as its bloated stomach popped like a blister and spilled the slime-encrusted remnants of its last meal, even as it reached out for me.

The last thing that I felt before passing out was its hard, bony hand pressing against my face, and the flames searing my skin.

I awoke some time later. The campfire had gone out, the darkness of the night was giving way to the pale blue of dawn and both McKamey and Hess were dead.

McKamey lay a few feet from me, blood drying in a vague halo around his head. His throat had been opened wide by Hess, probably in a last-ditch effort to save his own skin. At least he died quickly.

I found Hess, or what was left of him, hanging from a stake amidst the cold embers of the campfire. His body had been torn apart, and what hadn’t been taken had been placed inside a crude bag made from his own pale skin.

The Revenant was gone, with only a few smouldering footprints and some charred scraps of desiccated flesh to mark its presence in the first place.

My face felt like it had been doused in hot grease, and it was only after I managed to stumble back to civilization that I saw what the Revenant had given me in retaliation for standing in the way of its prey.

Abigail, the Revenant burned his handprint onto my face.

The doctors say that the scarring won’t be too bad, but it’s still noticeable, and it still throbs with pain. Sadly I can’t get any skin grafts, as the doctors say that they don’t have the equipment to do the procedure.

I hope you can still be with me, even with this scar. Something tells me that I’ll be needing your company for a very long time.

I can still hear the Revenant’s call sometimes, when it’s the dead of night and I’m trying to sleep. I know it was real, I know that I’m not crazy, but I haven’t told anyone else but you.

Please, please don’t tell anyone else. Just wait for me and, when I get back, you can see the evidence for yourself.

I love you, Abigail, and that’s what’s getting me through the night,

With deepest love,

John Lance.

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BaronOfStuff said:

Lowtax ruined SCP for me. Or rather, watching the utterly crap SCP games he played ruined SCP for me.

You make it sound like there is a large number of SCP games.
I only know these:

    FULL/FINISHED/STABLE
  • SCP - Containment Breach
  • SCP-087-B
  • The Stairwell/SCP-087
    ALPHA/UNFINISHED/UNSTABLE
  • Six Eight Two
  • SCP-Nightmares

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Just got wind of this thing has been making the rounds. It's pretty explicitly an art piece, though, but to what end the artist isn't telling. I'm just glad it's not viral promotion.

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