This is a CREEPYPASTA thread.

[JerardsUser]

The Butter

x X Pinoyjer X x

Water.

Wow. That's actually the best copypasta I've ever read.

And a really good story for an anonymous first draft.

I know right? It's my favorite pasta.

[JerardsUser]

This is a story I heard from my friend Y. Y's grandad died about two years ago. Y loved his granddad almost too much, and at the funeral he cried like a baby, not caring that other people were watching.
It happened on the seventh day after his granddad's death. On that day there was a storm warning for the area where Y lived and in spite of the murderous wind Y didn't have enough money on him to take a bus and had to walk home from school. He struggled all the way to keep himself from blown away and it was already past seven in the evening when he finally arrived home. He took out the key from the bag and opened the front door.
As soon as he was in, he saw the door to his own room, which was visible from the front door, open, as if to welcome him. He could see from the opening that the light and the TV had been switched on, as well as the halogen heater, which was the sole source of heat in his room.
It must be mum. She was considerate enough to have my room warmed up before I got home. Y thought happily, and he called out to her in a voice more cheerful than usual.
But strangely, no one answered Y. He looked around the front door and noticed there was only one pair of shoes that belonged to Y (note:Japanese people leave shoes at the front door before entering the house) and neither his mum's nor dad's shoes were there. Then Y remembered everyone in the family apart from Y was going to be home late, due to them attending a memorial service that was being held for his granddad. Who could be home then? Y was afraid that it might be a burglar.
Y tiptoed to his room, and fearfully peeked inside through the door. In the room there sat Y's dead granddad with his back to the door. The moment Y realized that it was his granddad, his fear vanished into thin air. Y was the sort who could never watch horror movies without having someone beside him, but although he knew he was seeing a ghost it was different when the ghost was his granddad's.
Tears rushed to his eyes out of love and gratitude that his granddad cared enough about him to visit him even after death. Granddad gave a few of his characteristic coughs and clumsily scratched at the back of his head. "Granddad." When Y called, grandad slowly stood up and turned around. And as he turned, as if by a trick, the outline of his body became slightly blurred.
Granddad's face looked as if covered in red ink. "Oh...Oooh, Y. Is it Y?" Granddad called Y's name. The voice was as he remembered it, but the intonation was somewhat strange. It was too monotonous. Granddad used to speak with a strong accent, but his voice sounded artificial as if it had been computer-generated. Granddad took one feeble step towards Y. "What happened to you, granddad?" Y said, growing anxious because granddad was acting strange. Granddad again coughed a few times and scratched his head.
"Granddad, did you try to come home?" When Y asked, grandad looked up at the ceiling as if he was trying to think a little, and said; "Oh...Oooh, Y. Is it Y?," uttering exactly the same phrase and in the same intonation as before. Y found that disturbing, and began to think maybe what he was seeing in front of him was not his granddad at all. Granddad was still staring at the ceiling. From his fingers some purplish-red liquid trickled to the floor, making a small pool on the carpet. Moreover, when Y looked at him more closely, he noticed that granddad's arm was bent at an unnatural angle; and the length between the shoulder and the elbow was longer than a normal person's upper arm should be. Granddad wasn't like that at all when he was alive. Maybe this thing was something that was pretending to be his grandad.
Y slowly start to back away, being careful not to make any noises. Despite that the thing that was pretending to be his granddad seemed to have realized Y's intention and, stretching only its neck, he stared at Y. Oh no, it's looking at me - the moment Y thought it, the thing's face was right in front of him. Its body was still standing where it was; the only parts that moved were its head and neck. The neck was now like a over-stretched rubber band. Before his eyes, purplish-red bubbles formed around its mouth. "Oh...Oooh, Y. Is it Y?" Y screamed.
He ran for his life and took refuge in the nearest bookshop. He was scared to be alone in the house. He couldn't go back until the rest of the family was home, by which time it was past 9pm. He told them what happened to him but no one took him seriously.
That night he was forced to sleep in his own room, where the red granddad appeared. Y felt uneasy. Whenever he closed his eyes he feared that he would see that red face the moment he opened his eyes again. But in the end fatigue took the better of him and he fell asleep.
When he woke up the next morning, his face somehow felt itchy. He went to the bathroom and looked himself in the mirror; his face was wet with purplish-red juice.
From then on he stopped sleeping in his room. Because he wasn't sure if he could manage to escape like the last time if the thing appeared to him again.

To this day Y still says, "that was definitely not my granddad.

[JerardsUser]

I'm sure EVERYONE has either read this one, or watched the videos, but just for the people who haven't, I'm going to post it anyway.
So do any of you remember those Mickey Mouse cartoons from the 1930s? The ones that were just put out on DVD a few years ago? Well, I hear there is one that was unreleased to even the most avid classic disney fans. According to sources, it's nothing special. It's just a continuous loop (like Flinstones) of mickey walking past 6 buildings that goes on for two or three minutes before fading out. Unlike the cutesy tunes put in though, the song on this cartoon was not a song at all, just a constant banging on a piano as if the keys for a minute and a half before going to white noise for the remainder of the film. It wasn't the jolly old Mickey we've come to love either, Mickey wasn't dancing, not even smiling, just kind of walking as if you or I were walking, with a normal facial expression, but for some reason his head tilted side to side as he kept this dismal look. Up until a year or two ago, everyone believed that after it cut to black and that was it. When Leonard Maltin was reviewing the cartoon to be put in the complete series, he decided it was too junk to be on the DVD, but wanted to have a digital copy due to the fact that it was a creation of Walt. When he had a digitized version up on his computer to look at the file, he noticed something. The cartoon was actually 9 minutes and 4 seconds long. This is what my source emailed to me, in full (he is a personal assistant of one of the higher executives at Disney, and acquaintance of Mr. Maltin himself):
"After it cut to black, it stayed like that until the 6th minute, before going back into Mickey walking. The sound was different this time. It was a murmur. It wasn't a language, but more like a gurgled cry. As the noise got more indistinguishable and loud over the next minute, the picture began to get weird. The sidewalk started to go in directions that seemed impossible based on the physics of Mickeys walking. And the dismal face of the mouse was slowly curling into a smirk. On the 7th minute, the murmur turned into a bloodcurdling scream (the kind of scream painful to hear) and the picture was getting more obscure. Colors were happening that shouldn't have been possible at the time. Mickey face began to fall apart. his eyes rolled on the bottom of his chin like two marbles in a fishbowl, and his curled smile was pointing upward on the left side of his face. The buildings became rubble floating in midair and the sidewalk was still impossibly navigating in warped directions, a few seeming inconcievable with what we, as humans, know about direction. Mr. Maltin got disturbed and left the room, sending an employee to finish the video and take notes of everything happening up until the last second, and afterward immediately store the disc of the cartoon into the vault. This distorted screaming lasted until 8 minutes and a few seconds in, and then it abruptly cuts to the mickey mouse face at the credits of the end of every video with what sounded like a broken music box playing in the background. This happened for about 30 seconds, and whatever was in that remaining 30 seconds I haven't been able to get a sliver of information about. From a security guard working under me who was making rounds outside of that room, I was told that after the last frame, the employee stumbled out of the room with pale skin saying "I can not see what has been unseen" 7 times before speedily taking the guards pistol and offing himself on the spot. The thing I could get out of Leonard Maltin was that the last frame was a piece of Russian text that roughly said "the sights of hell bring its viewers back in". As far as I know, no one else has seen it, but there have been dozens of attempts at getting the file on rapidshare by employees inside the studios, all of whom have been promptly terminated of their jobs. Whether it got online or not is up for debate, but if rumors serve me right, it's online somewhere under "suicidemouse.avi". If you ever find a copy of the film, I want you to never view it, and to contact me by phone immediately, regardless of the time. When a Disney Death is covered up as well as this, it means this has to be something huge.

[JerardsUser]

I should have known better than to be poking around there, especially so close to dark. I should not have scoffed at the "NO TRESPASSING" signs on the fence. I should have known better than to jump the fence. I should have known better than to approach the abandoned shop. I definitely should have known better than to pull off the boards over the door, no matter how rotten they were or how easily they came off. I should have known better than to jimmy the door until it opened. I should have known better than to come without a flashlight, thinking my cellphone would throw out enough light. I should have known better than to play with the old machinery, long since stationary without the industrial grade current flowing through its motors. I should have known better than to pry open that box. I should have known better than to stare at what was in the box for too long.
You should have known better than to follow me.

[JerardsUser]

Another one I'm sure a bunch of you have read:
“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.

[JerardsUser]

Footsteps aren’t an uncommon thing to hear when you’re sitting in a basement, so I think nothing of it when I hear quiet thuds coming from my upstairs hallway. I just assume it’s my brother, and continue doing whatever pointless little thing I was doing at the time. They go on for another couple minutes, and I’m starting to get pissed off. They keep getting louder and louder and I sigh, wondering what the hell my brother’s doing this late at night. I sit there, because it’s impossible to focus with the racket. I mean, it sounds like someone’s power walking all over my main floor.
I sit there and listen as the thumps get faster and wilder. They just keep moving, almost starting to form a rhythm. They move even faster and get even wilder and they’re thumping all over my main floor. I realize that whatever this is, it can’t be human. No human can move like that.
“What the ********?!” I finally yell. After that, all the noises stop. Everything is quiet for a moment, and then I hear calm, slow footsteps moving to my basement door. The door is pushed open, and the footsteps stop again. I listen to my breathing for the next three minutes, then sigh, thinking it’s over. Turns out something else was listening, too. Suddenly I hear it thudding down the stairs, and I knock my chair over in my haste to stand up. I start to run towards the nearest closet, just in time to see a grotesque, hairless, four-legged creature, dancing towards me, tapping it’s swollen feet in an intoxicating rhythm. I dive into the closet and slam the door shut. There’s a half-second pause and then I hear that same rhythm on the door.
It just keeps going and going with no pause, no rests, no relief. He’s been at it for hours now, and I find myself tapping my fingers along with his song. But then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends. I wait for a few moments, then look out. He’s gone. I flip on a light and fall into a chair. It’s safe. I relax and think for a few moments. But then I notice my foot tapping. Maybe this song isn’t so bad, I almost like it enough to dance to it. So I drop down on my hands and feet, and I start.

[JerardsUser]

I am always with you.
I was there from the time you were born. I stood in the delivery room, staring down at you before you could even open your eyes to see me. Your parents, relatives and doctors couldn’t see me there, in the corner, watching you with cloudy eyes, but I was there from the time you were born.
And I followed you home.
I was with you always, your constant companion. You played with your toys alone while I stared from all angles in nearby mirrors; my matted, clotted hair with oily sweat that hung off my dented forehead like glue. I was always your constant companion, drifting behind your mother’s car on your ride to preschool. You alone in the bathroom, but I was on the other side of the door, wind whistling through the bruised hole in my throat. My arms twisted and hanging in their sockets as I stood hunched on the other side of the shower curtain. I wait and follow you. I follow and drift behind you.
I’m not seen. I’m almost not-there in light. You never saw me that morning as I sat across from you at the breakfast table, a shiny red clot hanging from an empty tooth socket as I gaped grotesquely at you. I wonder sometimes if you know I’m there. I think you are aware, but you’ll never understand just how close I am.
I spend hours of your day doing nothing more than breathing in your ear.
Breathing – gagging, really.
I crave to be close to you, to always wrap my crippled arms around your neck. I lie near you ever single night, cloudy eyes staring at your ceiling, underneath your bed, at your sleeping face in the dark.
Yes. You caught me staring occasionally. Your parents came running down to your room one night when you screamed. You were just beginning to talk, so you were only able to cry out “Man! Man in my room!” You thought you’d never forget the sight of me, with my collapsed jaw hanging to my chest, swinging back and forth. I sank back into your closet and your mother was unable to see me though you pointed and pointed and pointed. You thought you’d never forget when they left that same night. You saw the closet door crack so softly and me crawling across the floor to your bed on all fours, shambling in jerking movements as I pushed myself under your bed on disjointed limbs.
You learned a new word for me: boogeyman. Not quite the monster you thought I was. I’m just waiting and following you always, touching your face with my knotted fingers as you sleep.
You’ll see me again soon. Any day now, I’m coming, blunt and brutal. One day you’ll walk across the road and – I believe I’ll plow into you with loud roar and a screech.
You rolling on the pavement, rolling under wheels, bluntforce metal fenders and my fingers touching your face again and again.
As you stare up from the cold pavement with cloudy eyes; your matted, clotted hair hanging in your face and your jaw unhinged and swinging to your chest.
You’ll see me approaching.
No one else will see me. You will stare past them into my eyes and I’ll leer down at you. For the first time in our life, something like a smile will come over my face. You’ll swear you’re looking into a mirror as clotted red bubbles from our mouths.
I’ll lean down, past the doctors and the oogling people and pick you up in my crooked arms.
Our faces will touch. My wings will unfurl. And then you’ll have to follow me.
And I am always with you.
Your guardian angel.

[The Butter]

Golden Lexi

You know how Fox has a weird way of counting Simpsons episodes? They refuse to count a couple of them, making the amount of episodes inconsistent. The reason for this is a lost episode from season 1.

...

This is also a very good read. Thank you for sharing this.

[JerardsUser]

This one really isn't scary, but I liked it, and it made me want to watch more Highschool Of the Dead.

I have to write this down for future generations. That is, if there IS a future for us. Since I couldn't find a pen in that bookstore I've been using a hollowed bone filled with fresh blood. It's getting hard to come by this nowadays. This'll tell you of how humans and I have ended up like this; in a barren wasteland without a sky or life. It began as an average day, the kids playing in the yard and the wife watching some tv with the husband. Everyone, even me, enjoying a utopian life when something dreadful happens. Somewhere in New York a blinding light fills the sky and mere seconds later, their skin is eaten away, their blood boils, their possessions melting. The fire and the concussive push arrive soon, suddenly blasting every standing thing into bits. And then... the pull. Dust, debris, and bodies flying towards the center of the explosion.
No one knows who.
No one knows why.
The U.S. didn't know how to respond from such a sudden attack. They didn't know who to bomb back. Then, another bomb landed in Chicago. They tracked it to Europe and, in blind rage, they bombed each country holding nuclear devices. You could imagine how they responded. Within a day or two, the entire world was suffering from a nuclear holocaust. It really didn't help when old Yellowstone Park erupted, sending ash and fumes into the air. No one could step outside without dying from something in the air. The waters, even the oceans, were poisoned with fallout; the food supply fell dramatically. Almost ironically, people had riots from New York, New York to Hollywood, California. People react so negatively to sudden crisis. But, eventually, I had to venture out for food covered in bundles of coats and a ski mask. I settled with seven other people (A father and son, a wife and husband, a guy named Dustin, and two brothers) in the local Wal-Mart. We constantly sanitized the entire interior and barricaded doors as well as windows. For the first few weeks we ate the perishables and when most rotted we turned to canned goods. But, even that slowly depleted. Eventually, we began to fight amongst ourselves. Friend against friend, lover against lover, father against son.... I still remember the latter fight. The father stood over his 12-year-old son, both of them holding a can of fruit salad. The father punched his son on the bridge of his nose and began to brutally ram his sons head into the floor until his head cracked open, spilling his contents over the floor. The others, including the father, came to eat the body. I withheld my self and stuck to a nice can of ravioli and a drink of gatorade. One-by-one we began to disappear by murder, cancer, or suicide. It was me and a woman. She eventually committed suicide out of grief of her husband succumbing to cancer. I ate most of her body and preserved the rest with salt in an ice chest. It was an eternally conflicting idea, but I had no choice.
I wanted to live.
After about 3 days I ran out of food but not water. I prepared to leave that god forsaken place by covering myself in layers of heavy clothing, and a surgical mask and my ski mask, taking with me a broom, an ice chest filled with bottles of water with some cans I found under the aisles. Along with matches, a knife, two garbage bags filled with clothes, and duct tape. Before I ventured into the red haze, I made sure everything was perfectly sealed. During my journey, when I needed rest, I'd stop at a random gas station or house and stock up on supplies if they had anything. Before I slept I took off the top four layers of my clothes and burned them for warmth and put on four new layers. I remember, I was staring into the flames eating a can of vienna sausages and drinking a bottle of water thinking about how hopeless this entire situation seems.
But. I must push on.
Weeks later, continuing my nomadic lifestyle, I found a rotting two-story house, but I decided to try to relax there and catch up on sleep, as I wasn't sleeping well. Nightmares and all. The door was gone and so covered it with some cushions after sweeping the ash out with my cheap broom. Afterwards, I proceeded to seek out any canned goods and water. I ran out of food in what my mind presumes was the day before. I'd opened a food pantry and was overwhelmed with the dreadful smell of rotting human flesh. I covered my mouth and nose and tried to make out something in the darkness.
Two skeletons.
Two skeletons with bits of rotted flesh hanging from the feet and ribs. I slammed the door and started gagging. But, above, I heard creaks. I was incredibly alert, hearing every footstep. It sounded like some grown man attempting to sneak down the hall. Or a small child not picking up their feet. I slid my knife from a pocket I'd made in my sleeve and creeped towards the stairs, holding the knife at a slight angle, the knife on its side. The footsteps were walking towards the stairs. As soon as I saw movement, I jumped out holding the knife as steadily as I could. (I was a bit scared at the time). It was....
A girl.
I must've either frightened her badly or she was absolutely starving. She'd fainted and fell down the flight of stairs with sickening cracks. She landed facedown with her arms and legs sprawled out in an uneasing display. I slide closer to her, thinking it might be a trap. (You never know). I thought she was dead at first but I heard her breathing heavily. Her left arm was bented in ways I thought I'd never see. I couldn't kill her and eat her without leaving with horrible grief. I may be desperate but I wouldn't kill another for sustanence. So, I searched around the house and found a basement with a huge locker with "MEDICAL SUPPLIES" pushed into the grey metal. Thankfully, I found an arm brace and splint. As well as bandages, gauze, antibacterial gel, antibiotics, and even some water bottles and MREs. I tried my best to set her arm right (I'd never done it before). I think I did it right though, she didn't scream in pain when she woke up on her bed with lead blankets over her. Before introductions, I handed her some canned peas and a bottle of water. She gave a strange look and then glanced at the food. I gently nodded my head and made a gesture like 'go ahead.' She slowly ate at first and gradually started swallowing two spoonfuls at a time. Afterwards, we gave introductions. Her name was Amy. She was 15. Her father was a dentist and her mother worked in an office. They were over protective of her, she'd told me. But, while they were getting supplies from the car, they'd inhaled too much ash. They died in the living room. And she pushed their bodies into the kitchen closet. She lived off of ravioli and water for at least a week and ran out of supplies around a day before I came. She obviously didn't know of the locker in the basement. Why or how, I'll never know. After what I think was a night's rest, I prepared to leave. I took her with me. I couldn't let some 15 year-old girl die of starvation when I could save her. We walked out the back door carrying 3 lead blankets. Heavy? Yes, but it's worth it to survive longer. And now, I'm here, writing in this journal while eating canned spaghetti with some water. Amy is eating canned corn with some gatorade I found in this refrigerator. We've taken shelter in a multi-story building for now for some company called SHA. We've seen signs of human activity lately. I'm not sure if this is a good sign or an omen. Hopefully we can make it through. Hopefully Amy can see the rise of humanity. That's all that's been fueling my motives ever since I've found her, it seems....
Hope.

[JerardsUser]

The Butter

Golden Lexi

You know how Fox has a weird way of counting Simpsons episodes? They refuse to count a couple of them, making the amount of episodes inconsistent. The reason for this is a lost episode from season 1.

...

This is also a very good read. Thank you for sharing this.

There is supposedly a video of it on youtube, but sadly the video is very inaccurate in comparison to the pasta.

[JerardsUser]

Earlier this week, on Sunday night, I had a dream in which I knew I was asleep. I was stood outside of my house in torrential rain at night and thought I needed to get inside in order to wake up. I approached the front door and placed my knuckles onto the door-window ready to knock. I knew that my next action would bring me one step closer to consciousness. The moment I knocked on the door, the thudding sound of the knock was so loud, so frightening and so real that it woke me from my sleep.

BANG BANG BANG

I jumped up immediately and listened out for a further knock at the door. I was roasting hot, sweating profusely and my heart was beating so hard, I don’t think I would have been able to tell the difference between a knock at the door and my thudding heart beat. After I came to my senses and realised that the possibility of the door knocking at the exact moment of dreaming it is incredibly low, I fell back to sleep.

Monday, the very following night, I had the same dream. Right back outside the front of the house in the pouring rain again, intensely staring at the house. I slowly walked to the front door, this time it was open. I walked in and went straight into the kitchen. I opened the cutlery drawer and pulled out the largest meat knife I have. I looked into my reflection through the blade of the knife.

If you stare directly into the reflection of your eyes for long enough, eventually it will hit you that someone is looking at you. You know it’s your reflection, but for just a second, you forget and become self conscious, as if it’s somebody else behind your reflection’s eyes. It didn’t take a second of looking at my reflection through the blade to realise that somebody else was looking back. The moment I realised it was somebody else wearing my grin in the reflection, I slammed the cutlery drawer shut.

BANG

Again, I shot up out of bed. The sound of the metal clanging in the drawer as it abruptly closed was so defined and so crystal clear, it couldn’t have been a dream. Really spooked this time, I went downstairs into the kitchen. I was half asleep and had to check. I opened the cutlery drawer. I was relieved to find the knife still in the drawer. I closed it and went back to bed. It took a little longer this time, but I fell asleep.

Tuesday night, my dream started with that grin in the reflection. From the look in his eyes, I could tell that the man in the reflection knew he was looking back at someone confused and scared. I found myself looking into the reflection of the knife, already in my hand, while stood outside of my house in the rain. The front door was open again. I walked into the house, directly up the stairs and into my bedroom. I looked at the bed and saw someone sleeping in it. It was me.

I knew what I was going to do, but also knew that I couldn’t stop myself. Instead, I kept think over and over again “Wake up”. My emotions were both in two extremes at once. I was terrified, but at the same time I was thrilled and excited to kill. “WAKE UP!”

I shot right out of bed and stood up. I was absolutely drenched in sweat, roasting hot, but relieved to find nobody stood in front of me with a knife. It took a few seconds to realise that I was gripping something tight in my hand. I knew what it was even before I looked down at it and saw my reflection in it. It was the meat knife, and this time the reflection in it looked terrified.

I don’t sleep anymore.

[JerardsUser]

When thinking back to my earliest memories, nothing is concrete. A string of hazy images come to mind like random snapshots out of time, each one associated with certain feelings and emotions. They are imbued with a mystical dreamlike quality, a gift born of childhood naivety. The magic of every Christmas when Santa was still real, for example, is an experience of pure joy that is lost with maturity.

Many of these snapshots are impossible to place in any sort of context. They’re just…there, sunken in the crevices of the brain without rhyme or reason: playing with my dad’s beard in a wood-paneled room, him smiling down at me – comforting. Or discovering a long row of marching ants in someone’s wooded backyard, all by myself – exciting. Some of them don’t even seem real in hindsight. Did I actually fall from that tree by the lake, only to land on my feet without a scratch? Was it really a dream?

I don’t think so. Sure, I have memories of distant dreams, but there is a clear distinction between the dreams and reality of my past. I don’t know how I can tell, I just can. And for this reason one memory has always troubled me. The experience was so surreal, and yet certain details stand out with marked clarity.

I’m not exactly sure when it happened. I couldn’t have been older than five or six. My brother and I were sleeping in our bunk bed. Because he was older, he got the top bunk. I had just woken up, but it was still nighttime. Something felt different. I remember seeing and smelling the rain, but not hearing any. The window was open and it was very cold in the room. Why was the window open? The curtains were gently flapping but there was no breeze. The quiet was so intense it buzzed through my ears. I’d been lying on my side, with one arm dangling off the edge of the bed. Gradually I became aware that it was warmer near the floor. I felt some kind of heated breeze gently strike my hand, coming and going in short bursts. Finally I recognized it as someone’s breathing.

Then the woman slid out from under my bed. The nightlight showed that she had long blondish hair and wore a white nightgown, and in the dimness I thought it was my mother. I wasn’t at all scared. It’s funny how a child’s mind works. What’s mommy doing under the bed? Must be getting something, or checking for monsters. I was too tired to say anything and remained motionless, watching. The woman was on her back, but her face stayed in the shadows. She rolled over and crawled on all fours to the far end of the bed, then glided up the ladder to the top bunk. Her every movement was silky smooth and completely silent. She reminded me of a white ribbon dancing in the wind. I closed my eyes and fell back to sleep.

I also remember my brother telling me about a weird dream the next morning. He’d dreamt of a woman who lived “under the floor” and came out at night to play in the rain. When her clothes got soaked, she went back inside and would whisper things to anyone who was sleeping. It became a recurring dream for him until our family moved out of that house.

Strange, what the brain chooses to remember.

//

[JerardsUser]

A man and woman walked out of the bank, hand in hand. This might be a normal thing for anyone, maybe even you. But not for her.

The man made a typical, throwaway remark about their lunch plans. Under usual circumstances, this would just be interpreted as a feeble attempt to incite lightheartedness into the conversation. But not for her.

With a quick, agile movement, the woman, his wife, picked up a slab of concrete by the sidewalk and, with great aim, hit two doves perched on a low-hanging branch. They fell, like two pathetic white balloons. As soon as they hit the ground, his wife beat them to a pulp-she could see that they were still breathing. And her husband knew that he ******** up again.

Some passerby began to stare openly at the horrible sight of two bashed birds.

“Linda!” Her husband yelled. “Stop it!”

“I thought we were going to kill two birds with one stone?” She replied, in a voice of unnatural calm. Her face gazed up at him from the ground, stoic and rigid, like some dread mask.

…………………………………………………………………………………………..

She had a certain….well, mental illness is a bit of a euphemism. Let’s just say she had a disability. A serious and rare one. Linda could not understand the difference between jokes and imperatives. She took every figure of speech she heard seriously, and was often compelled to make whatever it was into an actuality. Her husband recalled, one point, when she nearly pushed him out the window, when, in light of the recent resignation of his business partner, he remarked that he was in fact flying solo. Linda wasn’t always dangerous, though. Sometimes, he’d go home only to find her giggling like a little girl at the sight of milk on the floor. Or maybe even staring out windows during rainy evenings to see whether any cats and/or dogs were to be found falling from the sky. But then came the times when she would get harmful. Only last month, the pediatrician living in the apartment next to theirs got pelted with apples and other fruits. Poor woman nearly tripped down the stairs. This other time, an event which still scared him up to now, she shoved in his hands a bit of her bloody scalp, saying it was a piece of her mind. She had to wear a bonnet whenever she had to get out of the house after that. In spite of all this strange and violent behavior, he still loved his wife very much and could not bear to send her away to a mental hospital.

His mistake.

He became very careful around what she would see or hear coming from anybody since the episode with the birds. Much to his joy, a year and a half passed without much incident, and their firstborn child was soon to come. It was good, since the coming of a baby took their minds off whatever financial problems they had.

He was away when it happened. After he heard that child was born, he rushed back home.

As soon as he stepped through that door, he knew something was wrong. His wife was calling him from the kitchen. In her arms was the son he could never know.

In the light of their kitchen, lain on the table, were the remains of the baby, their baby. Its mouth was stretched open to such a degree that it split open, the underside of its jaws seen. It reminded him of a tear in cloth, the seams not made of fabric but of flesh. What little blood the baby had to spare was everywhere. In response to his child’s grotesquely expanded mouth, his father’s jaw fell open in surprise and terror and disgust, threatening to do the same. A scream tried to come out, but it did not.

Forcibly thrust into the gaping hole that was a baby’s mouth, was his wife’s forearm. She seemed to be trying to claw something out of the-

As soon as his wife spotted him, she turned in his direction, bloody baby still stuck on her arm.

“You have to help me! The doctor said he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth!”

[Alex_Firens]

WHY DO I ALWAYS READ THIS ALONE AT NIGHT?!?!
Fortunately I have 2 knives and a dog with me.

[JerardsUser]

Alex_Firens

WHY DO I ALWAYS READ THIS ALONE AT NIGHT?!?!
Fortunately I have 2 knives and a dog with me.

Do you want me to stop posting for now?