The scary thread
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I don't know why I'm quoting a year old post. But if you somehow read this, I just wanted to let you know that out of everything in this thread, this scared me the most. Like literally, I've never felt fear like that before when I read this.Mestraal said:
Yeah, it was so cash.Loop Stricken said:
The best part is...psst...I'm an American...
Anyway, once I got to share some emails with the writer of Ghostwatch, Mr. Stephen Volk.
He's a fairly cordial guy, really.
Well this thread has been going a while hasn't it?
Anyway, i'm scared of spiders.
Boring i know but just look at them!
KILL THEM ALL!
Anyway, i'm scared of spiders.
Boring i know but just look at them!
KILL THEM ALL!
Oh god, that's terrifying....mainly because I'm extremely afraid of spiders.Sizzle Montyjing said:
(Also, bump, I bet a lot of people wish this thread would just go away)
Hooray, this thread's back!
Here's something for those of you who like TF2:
Suprised it wasn't nominated for the finals, it's well done and creepy.
EDIT: Derp, it was nominated for the finals, actually.
Here's something for those of you who like TF2:
Suprised it wasn't nominated for the finals, it's well done and creepy.
EDIT: Derp, it was nominated for the finals, actually.
Creepypastas are like drugs, the more you are exposed to them the less effective they are and you continue to look for more and more but you never get that thrill you got when you read them in the beginning.
This is a story written by Yahtzee which I guess qualifies for a creepy story. It's based on his Chzo Mythos games which really are scary and I'd definitely recommend playing them before reading this to truly understand it.
Here's a link. http://www.fullyramblomatic.com/features/expedition.htm
This is a story written by Yahtzee which I guess qualifies for a creepy story. It's based on his Chzo Mythos games which really are scary and I'd definitely recommend playing them before reading this to truly understand it.
Here's a link. http://www.fullyramblomatic.com/features/expedition.htm
I wouldn't say so much it's a horror story, it's just creepy for me. But my dog died a couple months back in February. Ever since we've had his ashes back in the house we can swear we hear him trotting around upstairs. There's banging downstairs during night and when my sisters are at my dads and it's just me and my mum at home we can hear banging upstairs, as if he's jumping off the bed.
Thank you once again good sir!David_G said:[http://img827.imageshack.us/i/1310496349265.jpg/]
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You're welcome. Since you're so nice, here's some more.Azure-Supernova said:I wouldn't say so much it's a horror story, it's just creepy for me. But my dog died a couple months back in February. Ever since we've had his ashes back in the house we can swear we hear him trotting around upstairs. There's banging downstairs during night and when my sisters are at my dads and it's just me and my mum at home we can hear banging upstairs, as if he's jumping off the bed.
Thank you once again good sir!David_G said:[http://img827.imageshack.us/i/1310496349265.jpg/]
[http://img577.imageshack.us/i/1310496466810.png/]
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The one who really sticks in my mind looked at me for a while, ordered a double whisky, stood at the bar and drank it in a long, slow swallow, put it down, nodded, said "Yeah" and walked away as if he never wanted to see me again.
At first, I couldn't find any. I've been laughed or chased out of more bars than most of you have probably seen, and ignored by a city's worth of drinkers, but once I started finding them I found more and more.
There was the woman who'd beaten a husband twice her weight half to death in the time it took her to realise she'd been dreaming. There was the homeless man who couldn't keep a job because he couldn't sleep and couldn't stay awake and couldn't stand loud noises. There was the kid hugging a radio, playing whatever music he could find because he couldn't stand silence. There were men with grey hair over young faces and something in their eyes.
It took me a long time to find the word for it: feral. If you look into a wolf's eyes, you get a very different feel from what you'd get from a farm dog or a guide dog or someone's pet. These men, mostly men, had a different look, the look of something that's not domestic any more. Wild animals don't look like that. I suppose it's because they don't know the difference.
The more of them I got to talk, the easier it became to get them talking and the harder it was to make myself go on collecting their stories, but I did, for you, because you like tales of monsters so. I got stories alright.
There was the field full of pieces, just pieces of men, women and children, scattered everywhere. Someone must have had the job of matching them all up. I can't imagine that made for good dinner-table conversation.
There was the house, one house in a whole, empty, otherwise intact town, with holes torn in the walls, torn right through the walls, in two lines. The man who told me about it stood up and held a hand up in front of his own stomach, made a sort of sideways tugging gesture and then repeated it lower down. I didn't get it until he held his hand out as if he was resting it on a child's head. Stomach height on a child. I felt a little bit sick. I was getting used to that feeling by then. I suppose he was tired of it.
A lot of them were like that, willing to say just enough for me to tell myself the story in my head, unwilling to actually say it out loud, as if it was too fresh, too recent, too close to real and saying it all would bring it all the way back, as if not quite saying it meant they didn't have to quite remember it. Maybe they didn't. I hope they didn't for their sake. There were boys from Belfast, boys who'd grown up surrounded by hatred and violence and the constant threat of a bullet or a bomb, who'd played football in the streets there and then learned to fear their own pillows because of the dreams that would come if they ever got a full nights' sleep. They stayed up late and set two alarm clocks in opposite corners to get them up early every day, just to avoid dreaming, or drank themselves unconscious every Friday night.
There was the well, in the woods where you wouldn't think there'd be any reason for a well, as if a farmhouse had just been Control-Zedded off the map and the well had been left there, still in perfect working order except that it was full to the brim with bodies. You hear about kids falling into wells, but how the heck do that many people die in a well? How do the ones at the top, the ones you can see without even walking up to it, drown in the well? Either they drowned first and the others tunneled in under them or they drowned somewhere else then went into the well. I think the former explanation's the creepier of the two.
There was the village, and by the way this isn't "deepest, darkest Africa" here but Europe, within a day's drive from ice cream in the park in Hannover, completely emptied of people. Empty villages happen. Ghost towns happen. Generally, though, it's because the people left, a few at a time. That one had been emptied in one day. They found all the babies, all the boys, all the young men, all the middle-aged men, all the middle-aged women and the few old men and women in a drainage ditch. I didn't push for the rest of the story. Somehow, it was pretty obvious from the way he said that much that he just didn't know the rest.
Scariest thing ever on a horror movie set? An open door. Worst thing about that story? He didn't know the rest of it. It kind of fits together, doesn't it?
The least scary thing in a lot of horror movies? Actually seeing the creature. I reckon The Shining was so good because there was no creature so there were no special effects, costumes or make-up and the audience was never let down by it.
It was the creature I was after, though. I'd been traipsing around, making a fool of myself and buying lots of people drinks and meals to listen to a load of nonsense more often than not, looking for the monster behind the stories. Like I said, that's what you like, isn't it? Well, eventually, I got a lead, as they say. One man, stubble-headed, stiff with premature arthritis and rubbery with drink, told me in the nearest thing he could manage to deadly serious tones how to get a lead, and I got it. You'll probably laugh at me. I nearly laughed at him, despite it all. Then I tried it. It took a few tries before it worked, but it did. If there's a knack to it or a magic time of night or something, I don't know it.
If you want to see it, though, it's pretty easy. If you want to see the creature that drowned eighty-three people and left their bodies in that well, the creature that made those long, uneven holes at stomach-height in the house wall, the thing that left those bodies in the drainage ditch, the thing that tore a woman apart, literally (as the man who told em the tale recounted it) tore her apart like a roast chicken at a picnic, you can.
Find a room with a mirror. Go in there alone, stand in front of the mirror, look your reflection right in the eyes and say, as deadpan and emotionlessly as you can:
"Oh.
Good one.
Ha.
Ha.
You got me."
Give it a moment. If it doesn't work the first time, give it a few tries. I don't know. Maybe you'll never see it. I did, and now I keep seeing it. Maybe you shouldn't try. Just ... sharing helps, you know? Maybe if you see it too I'll see it half as often, or something. As it is, every time I look in a mirror, even if I stand in sunlight looking into an unlit shop or put the lights on at night without closing the curtains, it's there, looking back, and I'm getting kind of reluctant to meet its eyes.
Edit, three days later: do not do this. I'd just delete the post, but people have read it and should be warned. Don't do it. I was coping with it just fine until today, then I thought: "At least I'm only seeing it in reflections." Just like that, the train of thought was off. What if I didn't only see it in reflections? What if I started seeing it in, for want of a better term, real life? The more I thought about it, the more the idea scared me.
My mind went back to one of the witnesses I'd found, and to where I'd found him: hiding in a shack built of broken pallets, cardboard, old plastic sheeting and driftwood, under a bridge. He saw me looking down at him, and he looked terrified. I thought he was just scared I'd come to send him away or maybe people had burned his shack once or something, but now I realise he was seeing, above him on the riverbank, what I've seen in the mirror. Once I learned to spot people who'd seen it, I saw them more and more easily. Once he learned to see it, maybe he saw it more and more. Maybe I will, too. How will I even know whether it's really there, if I'm seeing it without a mirror?
I've been thinking about that all day, and I remember something one of the others told me: "Children can see monsters, because they're not sure the monsters don't exist." Children know, then, whether it's there or not. What do children do? They hide under the blanket. It sounds pretty good right now, but I've lost my faith in blankets, and you can't really hide under a bridge. Too many people look under bridges. I hope I can figure this out somehow, because I don't want to spend the rest of my life hiding.
In the mean time, just don't try it. Stick to your Marble Hornets, and leave the mirror alone.
At first, I couldn't find any. I've been laughed or chased out of more bars than most of you have probably seen, and ignored by a city's worth of drinkers, but once I started finding them I found more and more.
There was the woman who'd beaten a husband twice her weight half to death in the time it took her to realise she'd been dreaming. There was the homeless man who couldn't keep a job because he couldn't sleep and couldn't stay awake and couldn't stand loud noises. There was the kid hugging a radio, playing whatever music he could find because he couldn't stand silence. There were men with grey hair over young faces and something in their eyes.
It took me a long time to find the word for it: feral. If you look into a wolf's eyes, you get a very different feel from what you'd get from a farm dog or a guide dog or someone's pet. These men, mostly men, had a different look, the look of something that's not domestic any more. Wild animals don't look like that. I suppose it's because they don't know the difference.
The more of them I got to talk, the easier it became to get them talking and the harder it was to make myself go on collecting their stories, but I did, for you, because you like tales of monsters so. I got stories alright.
There was the field full of pieces, just pieces of men, women and children, scattered everywhere. Someone must have had the job of matching them all up. I can't imagine that made for good dinner-table conversation.
There was the house, one house in a whole, empty, otherwise intact town, with holes torn in the walls, torn right through the walls, in two lines. The man who told me about it stood up and held a hand up in front of his own stomach, made a sort of sideways tugging gesture and then repeated it lower down. I didn't get it until he held his hand out as if he was resting it on a child's head. Stomach height on a child. I felt a little bit sick. I was getting used to that feeling by then. I suppose he was tired of it.
A lot of them were like that, willing to say just enough for me to tell myself the story in my head, unwilling to actually say it out loud, as if it was too fresh, too recent, too close to real and saying it all would bring it all the way back, as if not quite saying it meant they didn't have to quite remember it. Maybe they didn't. I hope they didn't for their sake. There were boys from Belfast, boys who'd grown up surrounded by hatred and violence and the constant threat of a bullet or a bomb, who'd played football in the streets there and then learned to fear their own pillows because of the dreams that would come if they ever got a full nights' sleep. They stayed up late and set two alarm clocks in opposite corners to get them up early every day, just to avoid dreaming, or drank themselves unconscious every Friday night.
There was the well, in the woods where you wouldn't think there'd be any reason for a well, as if a farmhouse had just been Control-Zedded off the map and the well had been left there, still in perfect working order except that it was full to the brim with bodies. You hear about kids falling into wells, but how the heck do that many people die in a well? How do the ones at the top, the ones you can see without even walking up to it, drown in the well? Either they drowned first and the others tunneled in under them or they drowned somewhere else then went into the well. I think the former explanation's the creepier of the two.
There was the village, and by the way this isn't "deepest, darkest Africa" here but Europe, within a day's drive from ice cream in the park in Hannover, completely emptied of people. Empty villages happen. Ghost towns happen. Generally, though, it's because the people left, a few at a time. That one had been emptied in one day. They found all the babies, all the boys, all the young men, all the middle-aged men, all the middle-aged women and the few old men and women in a drainage ditch. I didn't push for the rest of the story. Somehow, it was pretty obvious from the way he said that much that he just didn't know the rest.
Scariest thing ever on a horror movie set? An open door. Worst thing about that story? He didn't know the rest of it. It kind of fits together, doesn't it?
The least scary thing in a lot of horror movies? Actually seeing the creature. I reckon The Shining was so good because there was no creature so there were no special effects, costumes or make-up and the audience was never let down by it.
It was the creature I was after, though. I'd been traipsing around, making a fool of myself and buying lots of people drinks and meals to listen to a load of nonsense more often than not, looking for the monster behind the stories. Like I said, that's what you like, isn't it? Well, eventually, I got a lead, as they say. One man, stubble-headed, stiff with premature arthritis and rubbery with drink, told me in the nearest thing he could manage to deadly serious tones how to get a lead, and I got it. You'll probably laugh at me. I nearly laughed at him, despite it all. Then I tried it. It took a few tries before it worked, but it did. If there's a knack to it or a magic time of night or something, I don't know it.
If you want to see it, though, it's pretty easy. If you want to see the creature that drowned eighty-three people and left their bodies in that well, the creature that made those long, uneven holes at stomach-height in the house wall, the thing that left those bodies in the drainage ditch, the thing that tore a woman apart, literally (as the man who told em the tale recounted it) tore her apart like a roast chicken at a picnic, you can.
Find a room with a mirror. Go in there alone, stand in front of the mirror, look your reflection right in the eyes and say, as deadpan and emotionlessly as you can:
"Oh.
Good one.
Ha.
Ha.
You got me."
Give it a moment. If it doesn't work the first time, give it a few tries. I don't know. Maybe you'll never see it. I did, and now I keep seeing it. Maybe you shouldn't try. Just ... sharing helps, you know? Maybe if you see it too I'll see it half as often, or something. As it is, every time I look in a mirror, even if I stand in sunlight looking into an unlit shop or put the lights on at night without closing the curtains, it's there, looking back, and I'm getting kind of reluctant to meet its eyes.
Edit, three days later: do not do this. I'd just delete the post, but people have read it and should be warned. Don't do it. I was coping with it just fine until today, then I thought: "At least I'm only seeing it in reflections." Just like that, the train of thought was off. What if I didn't only see it in reflections? What if I started seeing it in, for want of a better term, real life? The more I thought about it, the more the idea scared me.
My mind went back to one of the witnesses I'd found, and to where I'd found him: hiding in a shack built of broken pallets, cardboard, old plastic sheeting and driftwood, under a bridge. He saw me looking down at him, and he looked terrified. I thought he was just scared I'd come to send him away or maybe people had burned his shack once or something, but now I realise he was seeing, above him on the riverbank, what I've seen in the mirror. Once I learned to spot people who'd seen it, I saw them more and more easily. Once he learned to see it, maybe he saw it more and more. Maybe I will, too. How will I even know whether it's really there, if I'm seeing it without a mirror?
I've been thinking about that all day, and I remember something one of the others told me: "Children can see monsters, because they're not sure the monsters don't exist." Children know, then, whether it's there or not. What do children do? They hide under the blanket. It sounds pretty good right now, but I've lost my faith in blankets, and you can't really hide under a bridge. Too many people look under bridges. I hope I can figure this out somehow, because I don't want to spend the rest of my life hiding.
In the mean time, just don't try it. Stick to your Marble Hornets, and leave the mirror alone.