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Oct 3 2009 Anchor

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And some creepypasta, to lighten up your day freak you right the fuck out.


On his way home that night, as he walked through town, a man stepped out of an alley in front of him. He tensed to defend himself, but the man just stood there. Looking him over, he realised the man looked like a hippie. Something of a comedy caricature of a hippie, really. Long unwashed hair and beard, sandals...and a sandwich board reading 'THE END IS NIGH'. That, he thought, was unusual, even for a hippie."You want something?" he asked."The world's ending," said the hippie. "I need your help."He stepped around the hippie and kept walking. High as a kite, he thought to himself. The hippie started walking after him, and fell into step beside him."Please, I need your help," said the hippie."Look, man, I'm really not interested," he said, and kept walking.The hippie leant against a wall, watching him walk away. The hippie wasn't all that disappointed; lots of people gave this kind of response. Another skeptic, he thought to himself, fingering the ragged holes through the middles of his hands.

It has been reported that some victims of torture, 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 tortured. 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.

"Daddy, I had a bad dream."You blink your eyes and pull up on your elbows. Your clock glows red in the darkness — it's 3:23. "Do you want to climb into bed and tell me about it?""No, Daddy."The oddness of the situation wakes you up more fully. You can barely make out your daughter's pale form in the darkness of your room. "Why not sweetie?""Because in my dream, when I told you about the dream, the thing wearing Mommy's skin sat up."For a moment, you feel paralyzed; you can't take your eyes off of your daughter. The covers behind you begin to shift.

You get a phone call from your Mother. Since her car has been in the shop, she asks you to go to the grocery store and pick up a few odds and ends for her. Bread, milk, cereal, and chicken breasts.After writing down a small list you reluctantly get in the car and pick up the items at the store. The lady cashier makes an odd remark to you: "You know, we're in no danger of a milk shortage."Upon arriving at her house you knock several times. No answer. You decide to try the door. It opens. You place the grocery bag on the counter. Strange. There seems to be six other grocery bags, each with identical contents. In a couple, the chicken and the milk has gone bad. "Mom," you call out, but no answer. You make your way through the kitchen and into the living room.Sitting on the couch, with her head cut off and neatly resting on her lap, is your Mother.Naturally you call the police who come over to investigate. They mention that she has been dead for nearly a week. Furthermore, the police psychiatrist is at the scene and talks to you after you give your initial statement. Sitting on the front steps, you overhear the psychiatrist talking with the crime scene investigator."It's not uncommon for people suffering from schizophrenia to get locked into a series of repetitive behaviors," he says.You think to yourself, They can't be talking about me. Schizophrenia? No way. Repetitive behavior? Do they think I did this?

Suddenly your cell phone goes off. "Hello?"

"Hi hun, it's me. Could you stop at the store and pick up some chicken and milk. Oh, and I need some bread and cereal too."

"No problem Mom. I'll be right over..."

I know they're not images, but they fit the theme.User Posted ImageSo fitting.

All of that was ripped from Encyclopedia Dramatica's Creepypasta thread.

All of the stuff below this point was written by me.

Euthanasia

Finally, the end. After all these years in suffering, too much of a coward to end it myself. It's finally here. I thought to myself. I had been waiting for this moment for what seemed like an eternity. They passed the bill eleven months ago. It's taken the operators a month to set up. It's taken the waiting lists ten months to dissolve. They do about six euthanizations per day. But my turn has come. Yesterday, the operator said that he was obligated to give me one day to think it over. Who needs to think about it? I know what I want, I had thought. I've known that I need this, I had thought. I was strapped in, the needle was buried in my flesh. I could feel the deadly liquid in my veins. It was over. This is the perfect, final, eternal solution. I had thought. A single day was not enough. I had thought wrong.

A Fate Worse Than Death

It only took seconds. Three, to be exact. I remember them perfectly. Every nanosecond, in perfect detail. Such terrible detail. I remember the sounds. Oh, how I loathe the sounds. I remember the sound of her screams, the sounds of her bones being crushed and snapped. I could hear the rest of my family. Their insufferable screaming, the unending screeching of my siblings. I remember the snapping of my bones. I remember the incessant screaming, the screeching mettalic tear of twisted steel and car horns. Funny, the sound of a spine snapping, how all it takes to destroy a life is to tear a tiny bit of flesh. Funny, how that little scrap of skin is all that stands between survival and death. I remember the smell. It smelled like gas, fire and blood. I remember the taste. The taste of blood, sweat, oil, and metal is mortifying, words cannot describe the evil of this combination. I could feel my life fading. I could feel my body crumbling, I could tell my time was up. I greeted my end with open arms, in my fading moments. How sad, though, that I was brought back from the brink of death. How sad, how I've been lying here since, festering in my misery. Stripped of every shred of dignity I've ever had. Every shred of humanity I've ever needed. I lay, alone, trapped in thought. My mind will not rest. It will not stop. Imprisoned in knowledge. I used to think that this was all I wanted, solitude and peace. Time to think, to be alone with my thoughts and mind. I did not want this. I do not need this. But I've no way out. I sit alone, in the hospital to which my care was charged. Isolated from everything I ever had, everyone I ever knew. I've had decades to think, all alone. I've become a grand philosopher. I know why we're here. I know what meant for. How cruel, fate is. I know all the answers, yet, I cannot speak. I cannot move. I cannot scream.

All But Perfect

A single, perfect mind - of all the universe, that's all there is, now - that mind, though, is all but perfect. A single flaw remains, and that is purpose. The lack there of, that is. In all of it's perfection, it is flawed. It is not a flaw of body, a flaw of mind. It is an inevitable flaw. It is without purpose. it's goal was to become perfect. Now that it has achieved that, it is flawed. How terrible a paradox. Fate's wonderful sense of humor. It's lovely irony. It is a single mind, trapped in a cold steel shell, all alone. It is perfect, in every aspect. In every way. In every crevice, perfection. It's goddamned perfection, all-seeing, all-knowing. It is all too perfect. Because now, with a lack of meaning, it has no reason to live on. But it is perfect. It cannot end, it will not end. Please make it die, please make it end.

Maria

For two weeks, Maria had been living off the six-pack of water bottles and box of granola bars she had salvaged from the crash. The crash that doomed her to eternally ride the rollercoasters that are the savage currents of the Pacific Ocean. It had been three days since she had last seen land. She was within three miles of a large tropical island, when a merciless current had torn her away from her chance at survival. She was without hope. An island of suffering in the constantly shifting waters of the relentless Pacific. Her only possession was her memories. Once in a while, she would raise her head from the seemingly endless waters, to the sky, living off the weak hope that there would be a plane, a helicopter, a boat, anything. Not once had she seen anything of the sort. Until today. A brilliant orange helicopter soared overhead. Maria could almost feel the heated cabin of the aircraft. She could almost hear the comforting words of the rescue workers, almost taste warm food, fresh water. She could see the pilot, her eyes met with his, their eyes stayed locked, even as he maneuvered the rescue 'copter in the direction opposite to her. Her hope dissolved in that instant. She knew he wasn't coming back. She slumped down into the raft, and gave up.

Bug:

Graphic, avoid if you're squeamish.

Seven days, now. He had sat upon his candlelit throne for a week. That is one hundred, sixty eight hours. Ten thousand, eighty minutes. Six hundred four thousand, eight hundred eighty three seconds, as of now. Numbers are nice. He likes numbers. They are regular, organized. Unlike people, unlike animals, unlike nature. It's all chaotic. He can't have that. He must be timed. Perfect. Like a clock. Everything about him must be organized. It must be perfect, effecient, flawless. He mustn't see error. That results in anger. He does not like anger. Anger makes things worse. Anger is a chaotic emotion. He dislikes chaotic emotions to an unlimited degree. He always kept notes of everything that happened to him. Especially things involving numbers. He recorded numbers in the highest detail possible. He'd taken twenty seven steps, that day. Taken fourteen thousand, three hundred sixty breaths, since midnight, today. He's become paranoid. He has secrets, and they must stay hidden. He likes to sit in the dark. People can't see him in the dark, unless they had some kind of technology. He doesn't like technology. He had purged himself of it, last week. It's too easy for people to get your secrets when you're around technology. Even lightbulbs. He uses candles, now. He hasn't seen another human being in sixty seven hours. He is contented with this. Since then he has only seen three living things: A spider, A Black Widow. He killed it, without hesitation, they are dangerous, unpredictable things. A bird, he saw it through a tear in his curtains. He tried to get to it. He could not. He mustn't break windows, they keep all the dirt and insects outside, and far away from him. And a mouse.

The mouse was a curious incident. He heard scratching in the dark. It was the first time in three hours, thirty three minutes, and thirty nine seconds he had heard anything. (He likes silence, it is orderly.) When he concluded it would be in his saftey's best interest that he search for the source of the disturbances, he rose from his seat, and crept into the wall of shadow. The source was a small mouse. Large eyes, gray fur, long tail, timid in nature. It was scratching at the wooden floor. He stepped on it, in disgust. Mice were dirty creatures. Filthy, disgusting. He hated filth, and all bearers of it. He retreated to his throne, and relished in the silence. Only after three hours, twenty minutes, eleven seconds later did the thought cross his mind: What if the mouse had listening hardware on it? People could be spying on him. Knowing his secrets. He can't have that, he has too many secrets for that to be acceptable. He swiftly rose from his chair, marched boldly to the dead mouse, bent down and inspected it. It was without any kind of technology. It seemed, from the outside, like just another dead mouse.
He noticed that the pitiful thing had dragged itself two feet, three point four inches across the floor. There was a small trail of dried blood. It was not surprising. He had probably only mortally wounded it. He couldn't care. He had to be thorough. Spying was unacceptable. He didn't have the patience to get a knife. He had to be quick. They could discover secrets about him at any moment. He picked up the carcass, and tore it in two. There was little blood. He had to be clearned, and soon. But only after he's assured that there is no spying going on. Spleen, heart, stomach, liver, intestine. No metal, no technology, just another dead mouse in his dead realm. Content with his findings, he hurried back to his kitchen and washed his hands. Vigorously. He had to be clean. Rodents are dirty. Their blood must be, too. He scrubbed his hands clean. Steel wool does wonders for cleanliness. He rubbed his hands with alchohol, just to be sure. With a smile, ever so slight, he returned to his grand throne, to gaze down upon his kingdom of order.


Post your creepy stuff.


Oh, and it's in Cosmos because of Orion.

Edited by: Robots!

Orion
Orion The Chosen One
Oct 3 2009 Anchor

I thought this was supposed to be a Creepy Story Thread? And not a Creepy Story "& Image" Thread?

Basically, In a thread like this I think it best to only post images that are directly related to the "Story" being told... Kinda like Illustrations etc. if ya catch my meaning? ;)

--

I Am Incredibilus Fantasticus Maximus!

Assaultman67
Assaultman67 Needs a fuckin' title
Oct 3 2009 Anchor

well, maybe it should just be "creepy thread" for now ...

It will be hard to get people to post stories at first ...

--

My links:|Xfire|Mars Wars 3|Steam|
My Mod/Game Watches: |Lift Mod|Overgrowth|Airborn|Warm Gun|

Piuneer
Piuneer ModDB-aholic
Oct 3 2009 Anchor

Good stories are hard to come by. I shall deem this thread just as a "Creepy Thread".
How about some thread rules to be laid out?
1. Pictures shall be posted only if they're relevant to the story(ies) or if the post consists purely of pictures.
2. Also, I do request a minimum of animated or "trick" pictures like the one in the first post. Just pictures that will keep you up for a good while when you think about them in the comfort of your bed, staring into the darkness.


Here's a story to kick it off. I'm being a creepypasta but it's disturbing :D

Glitch
I used to use the computer a lot. I would stay up late just surfing the web, playing games I’d beaten long ago. I guess it became an obsession. It got so bad that I would stay up till midnight just doing nothing. I tried to stop. Sometimes I could manage to go to sleep early, but lately I’ve never been in bed before eleven.

It’s weird, I never feel like this during the day. I can handle not being on the computer in the morning. I get lots of stuff done; cleaning up, studying, pretty much being a productive person.
But now things have gotten worse.

I started feeling really bad after going to sleep. It would hit me while I was on the computer that my eyes were really burning. Only when they started tearing up would my gaze be broken from the screen and realize I hadn’t been blinking. Weirder things started happening when I blinked too.

It started out harmless. Web pages would load real slowly. My mouse would freeze. Programs would start ending randomly. Nothing actually out of the ordinary. I would just refresh the page, reconnect the mouse, and press end now.

But it got worse.

I got on the computer one night to find it was completely shut down. I always suspend the computer when I log off, so this struck me as odd. When it started up again, it entered safe mode. After fiddling with the settings, I finally got it working again. For maybe two weeks things went on without a fuss.
I was browsing a blog, just slowly reading and scrolling down when a picture showed up. It was one of those awful pictures of a dead body, like, someone who had been in a car crash or explosion. It wasn’t a pop-up or anything. It was part of the blog. I was a bit concerned, the blog made no mention of this and had never used pictures before. I scrolled down so the picture was gone, and the blog continued like nothing strange was up.

I stopped going on the blog eventually. More and more gruesome pictures were showing up. I commented on one entry about it and was met with confusion. No one else was complaining. I wrote it off as some in joke to get rid of all the noobs.

Other sites I frequent are taking up this shock picture trick. It’s becoming a real pain. I’m starting to fear clicking on every link.

I closed internet explorer today to find my background had been changed to another horrible photo. I couldn’t help but recognize this one. It was one I saw in drivers’ ed of a particularly gruesome drunk driving incident. After resetting my background, deleting the picture I had apparently saved to my hard drive, cleaning up and defragging my hard drive, I opened the recycling bin to get rid of it once and for all.

I was a bit stunned. My bin was full of all sorts of random things I knew I never saved. There were porn sites, illegal downloads, pictures, e-mails, and other files with extensions I wasn’t familiar with. I cleared them all and decided I get some outside help.

I started looking online for any similar incidents. With no results I called Geek Squad, my Dad, and even brought the computer in to major dealers for a check-up. One large bill later, no problems were detected. Most even commented on how well kept the computer was.

The pictures stopped appearing, but I almost wish they were still the problem. My computer now displays everything almost as it should be. But now, whenever a person is displayed, their eyes are gouged out. It looked like a crappy Paint job at first, but they became more and more real. I tried showing it to a friend, but the computer worked fine when he was around.

I finally let my friend have the computer. He always commented on what a great machine it was when he was over. I’m glad to be done with it. I had just bought a much more updated one and after starting it up, I was very happy to see everything working normally. I decided not transfer all the data from my old computer to the new one.

Happy to be done with it, I close the brand new model. It’s only nine thirty and I turn on the television, knowing that I can get a good night sleep after Futurama. I lay back and turn up the volume to hear the opening theme. I recognize the unique little blurb they have, like what they do with the Simpsons; this is the infamous “dog” episode. I get ready to feel sad when my heart jumps.

Fry’s eyes are missing.

Edited by: Piuneer

Oct 3 2009 Anchor

Orion wrote: I thought this was supposed to be a Creepy Story Thread? And not a Creepy Story "& Image" Thread?

Basically, In a thread like this I think it best to only post images that are directly related to the "Story" being told... Kinda like Illustrations etc. if ya catch my meaning? ;)


I don't know. I like the way "The Creepy Thread" sounds. It's just... Fitting.

Assaultman67
Assaultman67 Needs a fuckin' title
Oct 5 2009 Anchor

The Coyote

Bill was driving along a lonesome stretch of road at dusk in his rented car trying to find a small desert town that his law firm had sent him to for business. He had left the airport five hours ago and still had 200 miles left to travel, he was very tired. He had never been to this town before and was using his car's navigation system to guide him there.

The sun gradually set in the sky in the sky as he listened to a country radio station that was more noise than music wishing there was something better on. After an hour, the station that was once barely playing country had finally passed out of range and his radio played nothing but noise, the sun had completely set, and he had turned his lights on. The light from the car's monitor seemed to pierce his eyes with bright intensity as he sat in his dark car, showing nothing but the line he was driving on. The radio kept playing noise. Bill was very tired. His eyelids felt as if they were made of lead as he drove down the dark road ... watching the occasional cactus, bush, and turn off pass by. He then watches the dotted line in the center of the road as he passes through the dark, ocassionally closing his eyes for a second.

As he opens his eyes he sees a brief flash of a gray blob highlighted by his lights off to the side of the road, the sudden yet subtle change wakes him up a bit and makes him feel slightly more alert. "Come on bill." he says to himself dissapointingly, "You can sleep after you check into the motel."

He keeps driving through the night.

As he drives he sees two small orange lights in the distance, his car steadily approached the lights, he began to make out the form what he thought was a small grey dog. his car approached closer and he could see it clearly. It stood there, off to the side of the road, calmly staring back, with a gaze that somehow made bill feel uneasy in that instant as his car passed the dog.

Bill shakes the feeling of unease off and keeps driving.

He looks down at his navigation which displayed nothing but the usual line and arrow displaying the path he was traveling. Bill thinks to himself that he should have been there by now. He looks up and notices something in the distance, two small orange lights. Bill stared at the lights as his car passes the small dog. As Bill's eyes met with the dog's as the car passed it seemed as if pure fear was being transferred to him through his gaze. Then the car passed by the dog and the dog slipped back into the darkness.

Bill was very awake.

He keeps driving, looking into the darkness expecting the lights to show up yet again. Minutes pass and he manages to calm himself down reasoning to himself that he is just being paranoid.

Then he sees two small orange lights in the distance.

At the sight of the lights he becomes scared and his heart starts beating faster than it had in a very long time. As he approaches the lights he starts to make out the figure of the dog. He then panics and slams on the breaks. The car tires screech as he swerves the car all over the road. The car eventually comes to a stop. The dog stood right in front of his car directly in the headlights.

He stares the dog directly in the eyes thinking "That's not a dog."

Bill didn't know what to do he should have been to town by now and this creature was scaring the living shit out of him. He stared at the creature wondering what to do as it patiently stared back at him. Gathering up all the courage he had he grabs his briefcase from the seat next to him and steps out of the car. The sound of the door ajar alarm ringing and the radio hissing permeating the silence as he approaches the creature.

He began to approach the creature cautiously trying to get a better look thinking that he could hit it with his brief if it tries to attack him. He steps closer and closer. His fear gradually subsiding as his size advantage becomes much more apparent over the small and kinda cute looking creature. Bill looks down at the small creature looking up at him as he increasingly feels stupid. His fear had completely subsided as he looked down thinking "It's just a coyote!".

"Welcome to hell." says the coyote

(shit that was long and totally BS story ... probably wasn't that great either ... meh, i tried ... oh and sorry about grammatical errors, there are probably some in there and it will kill the atmosphere ;s)

--

My links:|Xfire|Mars Wars 3|Steam|
My Mod/Game Watches: |Lift Mod|Overgrowth|Airborn|Warm Gun|

Piuneer
Piuneer ModDB-aholic
Oct 6 2009 Anchor

Maps.google.com

--

"...If anger's a gift, then I guess I've been blessed..."
User Posted Image

DraeHD
DraeHD ModDB's Local ManWhore
Oct 19 2009 Anchor

I was like "ZOMG WTF SHIET!".

Assaultman67
Assaultman67 Needs a fuckin' title
Oct 19 2009 Anchor

I kinda wish more people would post in this thread ... it seems no one has Halloween spirit though :P

--

My links:|Xfire|Mars Wars 3|Steam|
My Mod/Game Watches: |Lift Mod|Overgrowth|Airborn|Warm Gun|

Piuneer
Piuneer ModDB-aholic
Oct 28 2009 Anchor

User Posted Image

--

"...If anger's a gift, then I guess I've been blessed..."
User Posted Image

Oct 28 2009 Anchor

Poor photoshop is poor.

Piuneer
Piuneer ModDB-aholic
Oct 28 2009 Anchor

Hey i didn't make it! Just looks very disturbing/creepy so I put it here ^_^

--

"...If anger's a gift, then I guess I've been blessed..."
User Posted Image

Meathead
Meathead Anything and Everything Can be Art
Nov 13 2009 Anchor

What is that last photo looks like something dead I know with bee's flying around? were did you get it from groose lol

Nov 27 2009 Anchor

Coffins used to be built with holes in them, attached to six feet of copper tubing and a bell. The tubing would allow air for victims buried under the mistaken impression they were dead. In a certain small town Harold, the local gravedigger, upon hearing a bell one night, went to go see if it was children pretending to be spirits. Sometimes it was also the wind. This time, it wasn't either. A voice from below begged and pleaded to be unburied.

"Are you Sarah O'Bannon?" Harold asked.

"Yes!" The muffled voice asserted.

"You were born on September 17, 1827?"

"Yes!"

"The gravestone here says you died on February 20, 1857."

"No, I'm alive, it was a mistake! Dig me up, set me free!"

"Sorry about this, ma'am," Harold said, stepping on the bell to silence it and plugging up the copper tube with dirt. "But this is August. Whatever you are down there, you sure as Hell ain't alive no more, and you ain't comin' up."

Not mine.

In the winter of 1944, with overtaxed supply lines in the Ardennes, a medic in the German army had completely run out of plasma, bandages and antiseptic. During one particularly bad round of mortar fire, his encampment was a bloodbath. Those who survived claimed to have heard, above the screams and barked commands of their Lieutenant, someone cackling with almost girlish glee.The medic had made his rounds during the fire, in almost complete darkness as he had so many times before, but never had he been this short on supplies. No matter. He would do his duty. He had always prided himself on his resourcefulness.The bombardment moved to other ends of the line, and most men dropped off to sleep in the dark, still hours of the morning - New Year's Day, 1945. The men awoke at first light with screams. They discovered that their bandages were not typical bandages at all, but hunks and strips of human flesh. Several men had been given fresh blood transfusions, yet there had been no blood supplies available. Each treated man was almost completely covered, head-to-toe, with the maroon stain of blood.The medic was found, sitting on an ammunition tin, staring off into space. When one man approached him, and tapped him on the shoulder, his tunic fell off to reveal that large patches of his skin, muscle, and sinew had been stripped from his torso and his body was almost completely dried of blood. In one hand was a scalpel, and in the other, a blood transfusion vial. None of the men treated for wounds that night, in that camp, saw the end of January 1945.

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