I have already posted a thread about this a while ago but it

Bumb for interest.

>>17392181
Does anyone else have that fear?

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I'll post more pictures of the said portrait followed by more pastas.

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Is there anybody here at all? Bump? I'm the only one posting pastas /x/ fags move a bit

Bumb cause I'm a fag

>>17392954
Nah you arent just this thread is getting skipped because /x/ are fags.

HORY SHITO BUMPERINO

>>17392947
pasta dumps are like so last month. now its all about posting stuff that you can whack it to but mods can ban you for

like bigfoot. walking around naked never seen running EVER. oh yea its going to get it one day. big foot shows up in central park some ones going to rape it

>>17393699
I miss when you could actually hold normal conversations on /x/... i was here for 4 years... guess im an oldfag

>>17393005
gotta get those tarot threads am i rite m8 :^)

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Exactly. m8

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>>17394033

>>17394336
Good pastas, I only browse x at work, I worked in the locked psyche unit at the hospital, cozy as heck anyways a bump for this thread, got no pics on my phone.

>>17394033
>>17394464
Fuck, I'm stuck in a loloop.

I would be cozy too if i didnt have to go to school after spending the entire night bumping this shitty thread to find somebody who has the greentext i needed.. anyways be chill bro :x

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Regular old good kindhearted bump,will post more pastas later.

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>>17392132
BEATORICHEEEEEEEEEE!

Bumpity bump

>>17392451
why would you go to therapy for that

>>17395914
this is legit scary

>>17395926
Well if not being burned alive is not your thing then gtfo am i rite m8?

Bump for interest.

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>>17392132
>Some anon responded to me that he had the green text of the whole thread and told me to post my email so he could send it to me

>>17392427
>Spongebob boxers
He's clearly a badass, hence the giant penis.

>>17392435
Around blacks, never relax.

>>17392512

>>17392498
>>17392487
>>17392132
This is /a/ cancer and not suited for /x/.

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>>17396646
After which i would obviously post it in the thread dumbass.

Yolo bump

So will the /green/ come or not?

Lmao this thread

BEATRICHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!

>>17398491
SENSE!!! SENSEEE!!!!!!!!!!!! BEATRICHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

>>17398525
Beatrice is a whore and u know it!

Ever since I was a little kid, I've been terrified of hallways.
See, growing up, it was me, mom, dad, my younger brother Jimmy... And my older sister Julia.
My sister scared the shit out of me.
It wasn't fair for me to hate her as much as I did, nor was it her fault. My brother and I weren't allowed to see her. She stayed locked in her room, at the end of the hall in our house, with a big cross painted in red on the door.
My father was a reverend of a Pentecostal church. If you don't know, those are the "on fire for god," rolling-in-the-aisle-praying-in-tongues types. If you don't know what praying in tongues is, think of anyone you've ever seen get electrocuted in a movie. The noises they make is what it sounds like.
So, when my sister started acting differently, always angry, naturally my parents prayed about it. "Show me, Lord," they whispered emphatically after bed, when they thought we weren't listening. "Show me what's tormenting my daughter that we may destroy this evil in Your Name."
God must have answered them, because soon enough, a team of card-carrying members of the Army of Jesus were in my house, and my sister was being prayed over 24/7. We were homeschooled, so she didn't even get to escape to school. Something about the devil planting thoughts in our head through available public education. Anyway.The prayer warriors were literally there all day, every day, with someone standing watch over her room all night as well. After a week of this, my sister must have been ready to snap, because she did. Screaming, yelling, and the sound of struggle started coming from her room at the end of the hall.

I was 8 at the time, Jimmy was 4. Our room was at the top of the stairs, down the hall from Julia's. We were peeking around the corner of our doorframe when we saw our mother burst from the room in tears and run down the stairs. Our father followed close behind, with 3 warriors of the Holy Ghost behind him. He shut the door, leaned against it and put his hands over his face, as these brave intercessors whispered kind words and laid hands upon him.
The three stood watch by the door as my father moved to the steps to go console our mother. He stopped at our door and looked down at us, and smiled.
"What's wrong with Ju-ya?" Jimmy still couldn't pronounce her name right.
Dad squatted down and sat on his heels and smiled at us. "Well, son," he said, "Julia's been set upon by Satan. He's come to try to destroy our family. She's been listening to evil music, watching evil programs on television when your mother and I aren't home, playing evil games and talking to evil people on the internet. I think it's safe to say the evil one has a pretty strong hold on her. But you know what we say to Satan?" "Get behind me," we answered in unison. "That's right." Dad chuckled. "So you both need to clothe yourselves fully in the armor of God and stand up to that devil and tell him, 'Get behind me!' We're all standing in the gap for your sister. Can you do that?" We nodded. "Good boys," he said, standing up. He mussed our hair, pulled us in for a hug, and walked downstairs.

That day has never faded from my memory, no matter what I try. Drugs, alcohol, nothing.
The next day, dad asked me to come with him on an errand. "It's for Julia," he told me. "To help her get free from the Evil One." We went to the butcher shop. The butcher knew my dad, and must have known he was coming, because he came out with a white plastic bucket. Dad thanked him, and we got back in the truck and headed home. He was quiet most of the ride aside from mumbling the lyrics to the praise and worship CD he had playing.
When we pulled into our driveway, he turned the truck off and broke the silence. "Joseph," he said to me, "I can't lie to you. We're fighting off a very powerful demon that's attached itself to your sister." He sat there, looking at me, as if expecting me to respond. I didn't know what to say." "Matter of fact, it may even be more than one of them. But I need you to stay strong for me, okay? And for your brother." I nodded. I didn't know what he was saying. He nodded, patted me on the leg and opened his door. I went inside. He followed shortly after with the bucket, and asked my mother to get him a paint brush.
You can get where this is going from here, right? Every heard the phrase "anointed in the blood of the lamb?" The screaming coming from the bedroom was never worse than it was that night. I could hear my sister crying, my father yelling out prayers, and his Warriors of the Lord praying in tongues. I don't know what possessed me to do this, but I started walking towards the door. Each step I took was punctuated with more screaming, or a thud, or a shout of "RELEASE MY DAUGHTER IN JESUS' NAME I COMMAND THEE" until I got to the door.

Our house was old. Very old. Old enough to still have keyholes in the doors. Do you see where I'm going with this?
I thought if I looked through that keyhole, if I just saw what was actually going on on the other side of the door, by understanding I might decrease the fear I felt of the sounds emanating from that room. I was wrong. As I pressed my face against the door, I could smell the congealed lamb's blood that formed the cross. It reeked, and I recoiled a bit, but I sucked in a deep breath and looked through the keyhole. The screaming, crying, shouted prayer, and violent sounds didn't stop. They were deafening. And then I saw what was going on.
I saw the three members of my father's congregation holding candles and praying in tongues, their heads back and their eyes closed. The bucket sat next to the bed. Crosses covered the walls, some painted in the same blood, some crudely made of whatever material could be found and hung. My father knelt on the bed, straddling my sister.
My sister.
Julia was bound to the bedframe by her hands and feet. She was stripped naked, thrashing on the bed, screaming and crying for them to stop, shrieking "I hate you" and "Fuck you" and other things I couldn't understand, tears streaming down her face. All while my father held down her arms and shouted his prayer in her face. She was covered in blood. I prayed to God it wasn't hers.
I ran. I must have looked through that keyhole for all of 4 seconds, but it felt like an eternity. I knew for sure my sister was possessed at that point. She had to be. What else could cause all of this?

From then on, I went to bed with the lights on, a lock on my door, and the covers drawn over my face. When I did sleep, it was plagued by nightmares. I couldn't even bring myself to look down the hallway.
Then, one night, I heard the door at the end of the hall open. There was no sound coming from inside. Only footsteps, running down the hall, down the stairs, to the front door. The door opened and slammed shut, and there was no more sound.
The police arrived at 7 AM the next day. Shift change for the prayer guardians. I didn't know what was going on. My parents cried on the couch while a man in a brown leather jacket asked them questions. I was told to go to my room and keep the door shut with Jimmy. I found out later, Julia had managed to slip out of one of her restraints. The poor guy must have fallen asleep. She killed him. Choked him with one of the same ropes she had been tied down with.
I never saw my sister after that. As a kid, I was secretly grateful. I hoped the devil completely took her, I hope she had run off and died somewhere and was burning in hell forever and ever.
So ever since those nights, hallways have scared the shit out of me.
My mother killed herself in Julia's bedroom a few years after all that. I was 11. "It's the devil," dad said. "He's still trying to destroy the family. But what do we say to the devil?" He boarded up the door to that room and never opened it again. In fact, that entire end of the upstairs stayed empty.

Another post: At first I thought it was my mind playing tricks on me but, now I'm not so sure. I don't know if it was her eyes, hair or facial expressions that were off but, I do know that what ever came back with me isn't my daughter.
My daughter, Savannah, was a bright and cheery little girl. She had the most beautiful auburn hair and the cutest little freckles. She also was an avid hiker and couldn't stand to be cooped up indoors. There was so much kindness in the that child that many people would ask for parenting advice. The truth is, I didn't teach her. It was just her. She would never even hurt a fly. That's why I don't know how this could have happened to her.
Savannah asked,for her 15th birthday, for a hiking trip with just me and her. I of course said yes because, we needed to catch up on some things and it would be a nice get away from our bustling town. She insisted on packing the jeep the night before and laying out our clothes for the next day. You could just tell how excited she was by looking at her. The next morning I woke up to the smell of fun-fetty pancakes and freshly brewed coffee. Savannah beat me to making breakfast. When I made it down stairs I saw her setting the table, wearing her favorite blue hiking outfit. Then I noticed how big she smiled. It was on such a rare occasion that she smiled, it felt like I struck gold. She rushed me to my seat and basically ate her food whole! The whole time I was eating she kept bugging me and bugging me to hurry up. This is what I enjoyed most about Savannah. She was so fast about things and didn't play around. If I told her to clean her room, it was done in 15 mins. But, it was also a problem because she didn't think before she did things. That was her biggest, if not, only flaw. Anyway, we headed out at around 9:00 a.m. and didn't stop until we

got there. We sang our favorite songs the whole way. Boy, do I miss her sweet voice singing country rode. When we made it, Savannah threw on her hiking back and had it buckled in 2 mins. I was impressed. We hiked about 2 miles into a small clearing surrounded by trees. I asked Savannah if she was sure that she didn't want to stay at a campground. She replied "Yes I'm sure. We stay at those all the time and the other campers scare off the animals. I actually want to see them this time." I remember this exactly. That night, after we put up the tent, I built a fire for us to have s'mores on. For the most part we talked about all the animals we saw and how it was so peaceful. I noticed Savannah was looking a little bit down and asked her "Are you ok?" She replied how she was fine. Just then, I heard some rustling in the woods and a croaky voice say "Are...y-you...ok?" I stood up about to go in full attack mode. I yelled "Who's out there? Don't come any closer!" I pulled out my pistol, about ready to blow the head off of whatever was there, when the voice replied "Don't...come a-a any...CLOSER...who's...THERE!" It was so strained like it didn't know what those words meant. And it put emphasis on the wrong parts of the sentences. I told Savannah to get in the tent and she did so very quickly. I kept my gun drawn towards the woods and screamed "Get the fuck away or I'll blow your head off!" I heard what sounded like more rustling and then it was silent. I made sure it was gone then told Savannah she could come out. "What was that?" She asked. I told her I didn't know but it didn't sound human. I told her that we would sleep there that night but, first thing next morning we were going to the campground.

I laid down next to her that night and she asked me "What if that person comes back?" I smoothed down her, now frizzy, hair and said "I don't think they will if they have any sense. Besides it was probably a druggie or some kids playing a prank." She said ok and quickly drifted of to sleep and so did I. When I awoke the fire was embers and the sun was just starting to rise. I noticed that Savannah was gone but, I heard our gear clanking outside so I figured she was packing up. I spent a couple more mins in the tent and finally forced myself to get out. When I stepped out, I saw Savannah rummaging through one of our bags. I said to her "Morning. I see you got an early start." She turned to me with the most wild eyes ever and said "EARly start." I walked over to her "Are you ok?" She kinda looked at me for a couple of seconds and whispered "Ok." I figured she was kind of shaken up from the night before so I let her be. As I was packing up, I noticed how she watched me. It was eerie so I told her to stop and to help me pack up. She did but, not as fast as usual and often copied what I did. I would pick up a bag and so would she. I would put on my shoe and so would she. It was quiet odd. On the way back to jeep she stayed a few feet behind me just watching. This was not like her as she would rush to the jeep and be waiting on me. I had to open the door for her and buckle her up it was so weird. As we were pulling out I told her that the Camp ground was closed off because of some crazy guy. Which was true police roped it off because, a guy tried to stab his wife. I thought she wasn't listening so I did the normal annoyed "Hello?" Savannah looked at me with the most wild eyes I had ever seen and said "Hello...are...you ok?" I told her of course I was and that she was the one acting weird. She turned around and looked out the window

her of course I was and that she was the one acting weird. She turned around and looked out the window "Hello...cAMP...hello ok." When I took her home she acted as if it was so new. I was really worried so I called our family doctor. He told me she probably was having P.T.S.D. because that can cause a person to scramble their words.
I left her be and figured that she could deal with it on her own. Don't get me wrong, I tried helping her but the most I could get out of her was "Hello...ok...hello ok ok...camp." She looked so empty and frightened. Her eyes didn't seem like it was her anymore. I didn't know what to do. For the first couple of days she just said hello, camp, and ok. She finally picked up the word car but, rarely used it. Then she just went silent and stayed silent for the next 3 months. Her grades started slipping and whenever I grounded her it didn't help. She hadn't even touched her phone or watched T.V. since we came back. I thought my daughter was crazy.
One day I decided that I should go to church and pray for my sweet little girl to come back. I prayed hard and sent out prayer requests everywhere. This one woman, who never talked to me before, came up to me when church ended and said "I'm so sorry about your daughter. It really is a shame she was so sweet. But, I wanted to ask you, did you happen to go hiking in [insert my state park name]?" I was shocked and said yes. She invited me eat dinner because she had so much to tell me. I made sure Savannah was in bed but, I knew she wouldn't sleep because, she hadn't since we came home from that hiking trip. She hadn't ate either. I figured she was doing it without me watching for some reason. Anyway, I went to the Italian restaurant we had agreed to meet at and found the woman(she said her name was Kathy) at a booth shoved in the corner. After ordering food and drinks Kathy started telling me stuff that

I wouldn't have believed or even listened to before our hiking trip. But, now I was desperate. She started out "My cousins went on those trips high into the mountains. They were all boys but, my sister and I sometimes tagged along. We were told by our folks to always stay near the campground every time but, my cousins were teenage boys and were at their hight of rebellion. They were stupid. Actually we were stupid. We often strayed away from the campgrounds to go to some caves and abandoned houses that are scattered all over the place. Hell! It was the 1987 and I was only 10. Well, one particular night when we were at an abandoned house we started hearing this raspy voice. I don't remember what it said but it was copying us. After a while of my older cousins screaming at it to go away it started chasing us. I've never ran so fast in my life. We lost Greg. We were so worried but, we found him the next morning and he looked like shit. He was different...he babbled random words and eventually went completely quiet. He didn't talk until much, much, much later and tried going back to normal. Auntie didn't believe it though and asked him questions that only the real Greg would know. He didn't. He still lives with Auntie but, she knows it isn't the real him." I took a sip from my drink and finally choked out "You mean he started talking again and started doing things?" She shook her head "Yes but, it wasn't the real him. He didn't like the same things and was completely different." I was hoping that Savannah would go back to her normal self so I asked "What did your um...Auntie do to make him talk?" She leaned in closer and whispered "I think she talked about taking him back to the woods. You have to listen to me though. Make Savannah talk and ask her questions that only the real Savannah would know. If she answers them wrong call a priest. It's to late for Greg but, they can probably save Savannah." We ended our dinner and headed home to find Savannah out of bed.

The next morning, as Savannah sulked around looking at everything, I took Kathy's advice. "Savannah, I forgot your best friend's last name and I want to put her mom in my contacts. What was it again?" She just looked at me as usual and returned to her plundering. I thought about what Kathy had said about the woods so I said a little louder "You know, I thought about going camping again. I want to go to the same spot we were at last time because, it was so peaceful. Does that sound like fun?" Savannah spun around quickly and hissed at me "No! Why would I want to do that?" These were the first words that came from her mouth in a long time. I was about to jump for joy but, I kept calm. "Well I thought since you like hiking and all." I replied. She cringed at me "I hate the outdoors! You should know that." First red flag. I patted her back and said "First words I've heard out of you in a while. Anyway what was your friend's last name again?" Savannah crossed her arms "It's Vance." For me I thought it was the real her but, anybody could have picked that up at school so I threw the biggest question I could think of at her. "Your dad is coming home tomorrow. Are you excited?" She smiled "Of course I am." There was only one problem with this. Her dad died 2 years ago in a car accident and that was why she rarely smiled. I told her she could continue what she was doing.
I'm so worried I'll never get my baby back. She's so different and distant. Whatever happened to her in the woods must have caused this. Maybe she is still out there somewhere and is all alone. I'm calling the priest tomorrow and I'll keep you updated. For now I'm going to pretend like nothing is wrong. Do you guys know what could have happened?

Another story:When I was in elementary school, I had a group of friends. I can't remember all four of them all that well, but I remember Jinny, my best friend, clearly, and the day we went to her sleepover. It wasn't exactly a scary experience, it was just really strange, yet I can't place my finger on why it was. I thought that maybe nosleep would be able to help me in a way, so I will try to retell what happened that day to the best of my ability without any exaggerations.
Now, the five of us knew each other since we were small, and did everything together, and we had sleepovers so often that I feel like I had several homes. However, we never went to Jinny's house for a sleepover until that day. It took us years for her to agree on it. She always said that her parents were strict and stuff, but according to my mom, they seemed pretty easy going. I always thought she was the one avoiding it because she was embarrassed of her house or something, since it was pretty common for kids to sometimes feel insecure about bringing friends over.
When we first came over, I couldn't understand why she didn't want us over. Her house was gorgeous, far prettier than any of ours. The outside of the house had a front lawn that was well decorated with flowers, and they had one of those stereotypical white fence surrounding it. We asked Jinny if she was secretly rich or something and she just laughed.
However, I didn't like the inside of the house much.
It was pretty too, but incredibly bare. The house looked brand new, along with the furniture, and even the walls were flawless. The floor was also really clean, which made me uncomfortable in a way, like they were neat freaks and I had to be really careful. The house was also heavily scented with the smell of those sweetened candles. It made me sick.

Her parents brought us to the living room. I remember the living room clearly. It was huge, like three times the size of mine, but there were only a few items in it. Some couches and a rug. Nothing else. This made absolutely no sense because, well, people are supposed to have more than just some couches in their living room. We sat on the sofa, which was leather and had that brand new chemical smell to it, and then Jinny's parents handed us pizza on paper plates. It was really strange how we were eating in the living room, without a table, but we didn't question it. They tried to entertain us by telling jokes, but even as elementary school students, we weren't really interested. They resorted to asking us questions, and the whole time, Jinny said like nothing. She was usually cheerful and talkative, but in front of her parents, she seemed stiff and nervous. Or maybe she was slightly ashamed of them asking so much?
After pizza, and no drinks or desserts, they finally left. Jinny asked if we wanted to play cards and stuff. Instead, another girl in our group said she wanted to watch tv because some show she liked was up, but then Jinny said she didn't have a tv. We couldn't believe it. After a lot of "are you kidding" and "no way"s, we decided to play cards, and someone brought along chips so we shared it. I had to go to the bathroom, so I asked Jinny, who then ran out of the room to tell her parents. I was utterly confused as to why she had to tell them, and even more when I heard her and her parents talking frantically before they entered the room. They looked incredibly nervous, and then Jinny's mother told me to follow her. I remember the rest as clear as yesterday.

She walked down the hallway to a door, and when she opened it, there was a set of stairs leading up to a second floor. I knew nothing about house design, but to have stairs hidden behind a door at the end of the hallway seemed really weird to me. Also, the hallway was really thin, so were the stairs. At first, Jinny's mother told me it was up there and walked away. I took like two steps, and she came running back. She said something among the lines of "I'll walk you there" suddenly in a really sweet voice that was different from her previous tone. She walked upstairs with me, to an identical hallway, and then gestured to a closed door. Now, you may not believe it, but I am being perfectly honest about what I see next.
I opened the door, and there is a bathroom, totally bare of anything besides a sink and a toilet. No towels. No cabinet, no cups or brushes for hygiene, absolutely nothing. I nervously closed the door and checked that the toilet could flush before actually using it. It just seemed more like a decoration than a real one. When I opened the door, Jinny's mother was still there, staring intensely at me, and then she walked me downstairs again. The other girls had already started to change into pajamas. I asked if we were going to sleep in the living room, and Jinny told me yes. We never saw her room, and this was crazy, because girls loved bragging about their rooms and it was a given that at sleepovers we would go to each other's room. However, no one said anything, so I didn't too.
We spread our sleeping bags side by side and they closed the lights. We whispered for a while in the dark, and then they fell asleep. I didn't.

It was dark, but I could hearing someone getting out of their sleeping bad and saw a faint outline of someone getting up. I was sure it was Jinny because no child would probably start walking around a house they've been to in the dark. I heard Jinny walk away, and after a while, I fell asleep too. I wish I didn't, there was just something honestly unsettling about the whole sleepover and I wish I had asked her about it. I'm sure there would be a reason.
The next morning I was the last to wake up, and I woke up really lates, like literally the moment our parents came to pick us up. I was too doozy to change out of my pajamas so I just threw my clothing over it. My mom greeted Jinny's parents and then the others before we started to leave. I told her I felt really sleepy, and my mom laughed at me and just asked me how the sleepover went. I whispered that I didn't like their house, and that they were really probably really poor because they couldn't even afford a tv and Jinny wouldn't let us see her room.
My mom, who had no tolerance for prejudice, told me to not say such things and to continue being Jinny's friend no matter what. When I got home, I slept again, and it ended up with me spending the entire day in bed. My dad was really worried when he got home and heard about me not feeling well. He checked my temperature and stuff, and I remember this strange swollen insect bite on my arm, and that later on I vomited.
I can't remember anything after that, so from here on its what my parents said. Apparently when my family doctor came to check up on me the next day, he said I was just hungry. My mom phoned my friends parents and had them ask my friends about what we had for dinner that day. They all gave the same answer. Just pizza. My mom was pissed off, and gave Jinny's parents a long lecture about how irresponsible they were. She said that they apologized again

I also have to mention something weird about Jinny. After I felt better and went back to school, Jinny asked me if I remembered anything from that night, and I told her no. She smiled and told me she was sorry?? Even now, I don't know why the sleepover bothered ms so much, and why she said all that, but since two heads are better than one, maybe someone can tell me.

I like these stories

As I recall, it all began one sunny morning four months ago as I looked over the day’s newspaper in my small, book-lined study, sipping at a mug of hot coffee, as I had done for the past fifteen years. Golden sunlight poured through the window, illuminating the paper on the desk as I pored over its contents. At first, it was almost unnoticeable; I had initially thought that it perhaps had to do with the steam from the bitter brew steaming up my reading glasses. But even after wiping at the lenses with my shirt, the somewhat elusive haziness and the wavy words in the centre of the page would not disappear. In fact, it seemed to follow my vision, so that wherever I tried to focus, a large patch of blurriness seemed to chase after my line of sight. Frowning, I stood, turning my head to the door, trying to follow the movement of the patch, and froze as I glanced out of the corner of my eye. There, for a moment, I had thought something had been standing beside me. A cold shot of fear dropped into my gut as I swivelled around frantically, looking for anything out of place. Nothing, simply the bookcases and a profound silence- just as it had been since my wife had passed five years past. Swallowing a strong urge to shout for help and ignoring the prickling at the back of my neck, I slowly stood and slowly, agonizingly made my way down to the telephone in the hallway to organize an appointment with an optometrist.

It had been nearly three years since my last visit to the local clinic, but nothing had changed since that time. The receptionist, a bored-looking blonde woman in her forties, had waved me over to a seat on the other side of the store and returned to her mobile phone. I could faintly hear the sound of some video game chirping from it from where I sat, just outside the office. Stock photos on educational posters grinned down at me blindly, each proclaiming some bland gibberish (‘Ortho-K: brightens your day!’, ‘Have YOU had your glaucoma test this year?’). After some time, the optometrist (whose name I could never quite remember) appeared and beckoned me in with a tired wave of his hand. As he performed the eye exam, checking my prescription, covering my eyes, taking pressures and the dreaded visual fields test, I noticed something swiftly scampering under the desk, and had to shove down a scream. The optometrist gave me a strange look; it must have shown on my face. In any case, he continued the examination, occasionally shooting me concerned glances. After a while, we returned to his desk and he cleared his throat, clearly ready to impart some bad news.
‘Based on the tests we've performed today, it appears that you may be dealing with age-related macular degeneration. Now, the good news is that you might not lose any more vision than you have already- it’s a good thing you came in time, before your vision left you entirely. Your test results show that with proper treatment, we might even be able to restore some of what you’ve lost.’

He went on to describe the symptoms I may have noticed in the past few weeks- a loss of night vision, difficulty reading, distortion- perhaps I had also noticed surfaces might have been a little more bright and difficult to look at because of glare? That was all perfectly normal, he reassured me. And- perhaps there was something else I wanted to bring up? The optometrist looked expectantly at me over the top of his high-tech blue-tinted glasses.
‘Well- I don’t know if this has to do with anything, but around the same time as all these other problems started, I’ve started… well, seeing things. Faces, and creatures moving around, in the corners of my vision.’
‘Ah!’ the optometrist exclaimed, reaching into a drawer. He handed me a glossy brochure and began to almost excitedly explain that it was a result of what was known as Charles Bonnet Syndrome. Charles Bonnet, it turned out, was a scientist in the 1700s who had described a particular phenomenon where people with visual disturbances, including those associated with macular degeneration, would undergo hallucinations.
‘They could be of anything- people, animals, objects; some people have even described seeing Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse,’ he explained, making notes in a record. He turned away and began to file the sheet away. When he turned back, it was with an obviously well-practised, clinical smile.

‘There is absolutely nothing to worry about in that regard. It has generally been found that it helps to close your eyes for a short while when you see them, and most people come to ignore them after a while. Now, as well as your treatment plan, I am going to, with your permission, book you an appointment with the local Guide Dogs association. I think that as you now classify as a low vision patient, a guide dog might do you good in your day-to-day life.’ I nodded eagerly. I had always loved animals, but had never gotten around to owning a dog since the death of my wife.
That night, as I was getting ready for bed by the dim yellow light of my bedside lamp, I saw something moving in the shadows in the corner of my bedroom. Frozen for a moment, unnerved by this hallucination despite all the weight of science behind me, I screwed up my eyes tightly for a few seconds. When I finally gingerly opened my eyes, the movement had stopped. Breathing a slow sigh of relief, I continued to go about my business. The optometrist was right, I thought. Thank God, too. Now all I had to do was continue ignoring these phantom images, and one day they would hopefully stop. Wasn’t that the way things always worked?
I visited the Guide Dogs foundation in the city the very next day. The staff there were very understanding, and showed me how to properly use the various canes and reading aids they provided. A dog would be found to suit my needs within the next month, the woman at the desk had explained, beaming at me as I left. Over the next few

weeks, the hallucinations continued to come, as I had been told to expect, but no matter how much I tried not to notice them, it seemed that they were coming more and more often. Most often it was something indistinguishable rapidly moving out of sight in the corner of my eye, or the vaguest sensation that something was standing just behind me. Once, while I was washing up after dinner, I thought I saw a flash of white as I spun around, but once again there was nothing but my own ragged, panicked breathing in the empty kitchen.
About a month after the first time I had visited the Guide Dogs foundation, I was introduced to Daisy, a beautiful cream-coloured Golden Retriever who was to be my new companion. Daisy was one of the most affectionate dogs I had ever met, and she would often nudge my leg, looking for attention, when we were home together. But although she was by and large a welcome presence in an otherwise empty house, there was a peculiar habit I noticed she had adopted. Occasionally she would stop and pull me in different directions, tugging at her harness in an almost insistent fashion. And as she did so, I would always feel the crawling sensation of something just out of my sight, almost as if she was trying to steer me away from something that I could not quite see.
Over the next few months, the hallucinations continued, and now they took on a much more confusing and disturbing aspect. I would come home to find my wife cooking dinner by the stove, as if she had never had that fatal lung tumour, as if she had never been buried and mourned by myself and her family. She would sweetly smile at me, and

outside in the darkness I could hear children laughing and shrieking, as children do.
‘Come and sit down, dear, the soup will be ready in a few minutes. Oh, before you do that, could you please tell the children to come inside? They’ve been outside all day.’ For a moment I would stare, unbelieving. I could smell the soup cooking, and despite my now failing vision, outside I could see faint movements, as if there really were children playing out there in the dim twilight. And then I would remember that we had never had any children to begin with, that this must be another illusion. And Daisy would come inside, and I could feel her tensing by my side and hear her low, warning growl. And then as I turned to comfort her, I would feel the image dissolving, and suddenly go weak at the knees as I struggled to contain myself.
I also began to notice a stench rising in the house, as time passed. It was an odour of damp earth and decay, like a small animal had crawled in and died in some unknown corner of the house. At first I passed it off as Daisy’s natural scent, or from her trekking in mud and other rubbish. But Daisy was a clean and unadventurous dog, and her scent was most definitely not the one that I caught whiffs of, now and again throughout the house. My second thought was that perhaps a rat had died under a piece of furniture, but try as I might, there was no sign of anything that could be causing the stench. My failing vision, patchy and fading, served only to hinder my search. In the end, I passed it off as

just another figment of my imagination. In the back of my head I could hear the optometrist gently reminding me that ‘none of this is real. All you have to do is close your eyes and it will go away on its own.’ In the final weeks, as the visions became more and more vivid, I clung to this mantra more and more, grasping onto it almost religiously.
It all came to a terrifying head tonight. Daisy had become more and more on edge all day, growling and whimpering at the door, begging to be let out. Inside, the stench rose, and faded, and rose again, and I had just turned to retch into the sink when I noticed the door suddenly swing ajar. With a final bark, Daisy leapt outside, harness and all, and raced off into the fading evening light. With a cry, I sprang forward to chase after her, forgetting in my panic to avoid a pulled-out chair. There was a distinctive crack and a jolt of pain all the way up my leg as I landed, and I let out an involuntary moan as I tried to move myself into a sitting position. The pain was extraordinary, like a hammer to the kneecap, and for a moment all I could see were stars. And then as the flashes faded, I looked up to see the face of my wife, but this time the smile was not sweet, but unnaturally forced, and her eyes were rotting and crawling with centipedes and maggots set in a decaying face. She opened her mouth to reveal a tongue blackened and half-chewed-

off by some insect, and in a grating parody of her voice mockingly rasped, ‘won’t you come sit with me, darling?’ Her skeletal, pale arms reached for me, and with a terrified shriek I pushed at her, falling back from her wasted body as I scrambled for the hallway to a room I could find safety in.
Dragging myself painfully through the hall, too frightened to stop or look back, I strained to hear any sound coming from the kitchen, but to no avail. Nothing but silence broken only by my panting and scraping across the carpet towards the study, with its sturdy lock and the promise of safety inside. As I crawled, I swore the hallway burst to life with faces and creatures, bulging from the walls, leaping past me, over me, and even through me. I shut my eyes and continued to crawl, praying feverishly under my breath. And after what seemed like hours, in agony, I fell into the study, slammed the door and felt for the light. My relief was short-lived as the bulb sputtered on, held its light for a moment, and then fizzled out, leaving the room in darkness again. With a cry of fear, I realised too late that the telephone was out there, in the darkened hallway teeming with abominations of my imagination. Pulling my way to the window, I slammed down the blinds before something else came crawling out of the night for me, and fell sobbing to the floor.

It was a good hour or so before I regained enough of my wits to struggle to the barely-used, dusty computer by the desk and switch it on, hoping against hope that no cruel twist of fate would leave me in the dark by myself. A cold blue glow enveloped me as I slumped against the desk, tired and frightened. And now for the past few hours I have sat here, typing this out, hoping against hope that someone out there in the ether may see this story and be there to reassure me that it is simply a bad dream, that there is a form of Charles Bonnet Syndrome that causes patients to see their dead wives calling them to the grave with them, that none of this is and has ever been real. Sitting here voicing my thoughts has somewhat calmed my thoughts. The broken leg has dulled to a throbbing ache that only sharpens when I attempt to move from my seat; it is almost bearable now. When I read my confused babblings back, it seems almost silly. Just the ramblings of an old man who has lost his sight, and perhaps his mind. Perhaps I will slowly make my way out into that darkened hallway again, and call the emergency services for a silly old man who fell over and broke his leg, and all will be quiet as it should be. Perhaps my fears have been for naught. Perhaps Daisy has made her way back inside, having been shocked by a sudden movement or bird outside. In fact, perhaps she has made her way down the hallway into my study, which I must have forgotten to lock in my panic, and now quietly

brushes my leg with her body to reassure me in my fear. It could not be anything else that now caresses my one good leg, now, and that stench that now rises so powerfully must be a dead animal she has brought in, and nothing else. Perhaps the door has slid open, and that would explain the sour, wet gust that I feel on the back of my neck, almost like a dead thing’s laboured breath. And perhaps the skeletal, maggot-writhing hand I feel now upon my shoulder, gripping me with cold and solid finality, is nothing more than an illusion conjured by my failing vision and the ever present Charles Bonnet Syndrome. After all, what else could it be?

brushes my leg with her body to reassure me in my fear. It could not be anything else that now caresses my one good leg, now, and that stench that now rises so powerfully must be a dead animal she has brought in, and nothing else. Perhaps the door has slid open, and that would explain the sour, wet gust that I feel on the back of my neck, almost like a dead thing’s laboured breath. And perhaps the skeletal, maggot-writhing hand I feel now upon my shoulder, gripping me with cold and solid finality, is nothing more than an illusion conjured by my failing vision and the ever present Charles Bonnet Syndrome. After all, what else could it be?

Another story:Hello everyone. I was just looking back and it's been four months since my last post! I've been pretty busy as a caregiver. I accepted a position as a full time night shift employee at my work. This story took place yesterday.
At the assisted living facility I work at... It's not laid out or planned very well. The south building which is much older is two floors which is sort of haphazardly connected to the north building that has four floors. We have a front door, two fire exits down the second floor stairwell in the north building, a exit out of an employee and resident garage, a exit to our beautiful garden which is located in the south. Then we have the basement that has a couple of locked exits that are behind locked doors. It's pretty interesting because behind those locked doors are the original apartments built in the 1940s.
Sound confusing? Everyone gets lost in here. Whenever i train new employees I try not to lead them around or anything. I like walking around with people and having them to try to figure out where everything is!
All the exits are connected to a sensor which sends an alarm to a pager attached my hip. Usually the front door and the the employee garage door are the only ones that usually open in the middle of the night. When I first started working here I was told don't ever open the front door between the hours of 10pm and 6am. The only people allowed in are the newspaper man at 4am and the housekeeper at 4:30am. When they enter the premise make sure the doors are quickly closed behind them. I never understood why... Until yesterday.

Night shift is hard position to fill. Not many people are willing to stay up and make sure the building runs smoothly. We are short handed, so, we have been using people from an agency. It's hard to keep a standard do's and dont's with such a revolving door of help.
The guy that showed up last night with me is named Zack. It was his first night and he was told the basics. Answering phones, filing papers, sort of being the command station for the building while I work on the floor taking care of the residents. I don't think anyone mentioned to him about our door policy.
I was sitting down enjoying my lunch around 1:00am. Zack isn't much for conversation but that's alright. I just end up watching movies or playing video games. The job isn't terribly difficult. At 1:30am my pager goes off. I take off my pager and examine it. Front door. The newspaper man is way too early and family members don't ever come at that time. Maybe Zack stepped out for a smoke or something?
I kept eating until I realized... Don't open the door policy. As soon as that thought crosses my mind my pager goes off again. Fire Exit Door East. Now... I've been doing this job for nearly 4 years and I have never seen that door ever be opened. I put down my lunch and exit the nurses station to head towards the front desk. Zack is nowhere to be found. Shit. That's weird. I look out the front door and don't see him standing around.

The front desk phone rings. I go around the desk and to pick it up. Caller ID says unknown. I pick up the phone and say my usual greeting. No response. After a few seconds I hear static then a click. My pager goes off again and it says Fire Exit Door East. That means that someone has propped that door open and hasn't shut it yet.
I guess I can abandon the front desk. No one ever calls except for Mary who always wants to know what time it is. But I'm pretty sure she can handle a couple minutes without being reminded of the time. I head up to the second floor and towards the stairwell that leads to the fire exit. I open the door to the stairwell and I'm greeted with cold, cold air. Can an open door a floor below generate that much cold? I should have brought my jacket.
I walk down the stairs listening to any out of the ordinary noises. I reach the bottom and I round the corner to the exit. Yeah the door is open. It's been propped open by a brick. Alright. That's why my alarm on my pager keeps going off. I poke my head out the door and it's pitch black outside. I turn the flashlight on my phone on and shine my light towards the gate to the street. That gate is latched... Then I swung my light to the other direction. There is a gravel path that leads to a chain link fence which connects the employee garage. You would have to jump the fence to get to the garage. I look down and the gravel looks displaced. I see a footprint. I step outside careful to leave the brick in place propping the door open. I shine my light onto the ground and see another footprint. I follow the footprints for a foot or two until I am face to face with the chain link fence. The footprints continue as if they were going through the fence! Weird..

WOMP. I heard a loud noise and a slamming sound coming from behind me. Damn it. The door closed leaving me outside. There was no gusts of wind as it was a still night out. And plus the door is pretty hefty. I examine my options... I can either scale the fence and get back into the building through the garage. Or I can just simply unlatch the gate and head towards the front door. That seems like the easiest option.
I turn off my flashlight on my phone and let my eyes adjust to the dark. Along with my pager I also have a walkie talkie.
"Zack are you there? Zack do you copy? I'm locked out and I'll be back inside in a minute."
Nothing. No response. Alright. Well. Let's figure this shit out. I'm freezing. I unlock the gate and carefully make sure it closes behind me. I've never gone this way before. I turn the corner and walk a little bit. In the distance I see a light. Is that the front desk? It's so dark outside I can't quite make out what I see in the distance. I walk a little bit and get closer to the light.
My pager goes off again. Fire Exit Door West. That's on the other side of the stairwell! Fuck. This is frustrating. Where is Zack? Anytime an alarm goes on longer then ten minutes my manager gets notified. Ok ok. Calm down. Your fine.

I'm getting closer to the light. Then something looks out of place. This isn't the front door. I must be tired. There is no way it can't be anything else. The front doors are two big glass doors. What I'm facing is a big metal door with a small window with a light shining out. What the fuck. That is impossible. I could not have taken a wrong turn.
I take a deep sigh and reach for the keys in my pocket. The keys can pretty much unlock any door in the whole facility. I try the key that unlocks any outside door. It turns successfully and the door swings open. I get my bearings. I'm in the maintenance part of the building. Which is on the complete opposite side of the front door. This is situated just past the basement. The old original apartments! Which... oh god. Is secured behind a padlock. You need to turn the dial to the correct digits to unlock to get in. Am I stuck in here? If I leave out the door I came in will I be able to make my way around?
My pager is still going off alerting me of the door still being open in the west fire exit. I turn on all the lights in the maintenance office. I go to where the door is padlocked on the other side it and try it. No luck. Of course it's locked. It's always locked.
I go into the actual maintenance office of the area and sit down in the chair to think. I pull out my phone. 2am. Wow. I've been gone from the front area for 30 minutes! I try my radio again and no response. My phone starts to ring. It's my manager! How come I didn't think to call her?
"Hello?" I answer feeling relieved.
"Where have you been? What is going on? Is anyone at the front desk?" she sounded pretty mad.
"Listen... I can't Zack. I'm locked in the maintenance area. I don't know what's going on."

"Did you open the front door?"
How... What? How did she know...
"What do you mean? I was just responding to a page about.." I tried explaining.
"No you wouldn't be talking to me" She interrupted "That explains Zack. Never mind. Can you use the maintenance phone to call the police?"
Once again. Here I am panicking and I never thought to do anything.
"Yeah. I'll do that. I'll keep you posted." I hung up after saying goodbye.
I set my phone down on the desk and picked up the work phone. I dialed 911. I explained to them my situation and gave them my address.
"Wait... Is that the address to that assisted living facility. Um.. We can't... Oh.. Uh. We will send someone to you." the 911 operator quickly hung up the phone on me.
What was all that about? What the fuck is going on with this place. I've seen some strange stuff and dealt with strange people but this is beyond weird! I guess there is a solution I haven't tried.
I go back to door I entered. I take a deep breath. I open the door and I step outside.
My pager goes off. Front Door. I stand up out of the chair. What. I was just.. walking.. No.
I'm inside the nurse's station. I exit and go towards the front desk. I see Zack sitting behind the front desk folding napkins for the dining room. No way. What the hell is going on? I check my pager again and no active pages this time. My phone vibrates.

I take it out of my pocket. I have a new text message. I open to the home screen and the clock reads 1:30am.
The text message is from my manger
"Please remind Zack not to open the door."

This thread is literally one Anon posting stories while you fags leech. Contribute a little /x/ fags and stop wasting times on Muh magic fedora

>>17400144
I will be the first to admit that what I did in my youth was monstrous. But that is no reason why I must be afflicted with such nightmarish terrors. It is inhumane to live like this; but I will not be forced out of my own home, built by my own ancestors.

I am an Alvarado, the last of the richest family in Guanajuato! So what if nobody wants to work for me anymore? Ignorant peasants! I have enough money and rifles to outlive whatever it is that afflicts this Hacienda.

But as brave as my words are, my soul cannot match them. I fear. I tremble when the sun goes out. It is out there, it is here, it is everywhere- the Horrendous Beast with its large yellow eyes and the surrounding dark void. It cannot be described further.

A demon.

I feel like it is its duty to kill me. But not a quick death, it wants to make my life unbearable. It wants me to do it the favor of killing myself. I have seen it once or twice; I have shot at it with no effect. It is like shooting at twisted lights and shadows. If it was just my fear of seeing it, I would have already taken my eyes out. But it screams like the cat it once was, it yells like the little girls I have murdered.

The demon cat of Guanajuato.

It was 11:54 P.M.

10 04 2015
JACK THIS IS NOT A JOKE
YOUR BROTHER HAS BEEN MURDERED
YOUR BROTHER HAS BEEN MURDERED
Where the hell was John?

He was supposed to meet me outside the hotel an hour ago, so I figured he’d been stuck in late night traffic or something. I was getting impatient – he was taking far too long. I went outside and called his cell, standing in the pouring rain, continuously glancing both ways. Finally, someone picked up. But it wasn’t John.

“Hello?” I asked.

“This is the Yorkshire Police, P.C. James Hartman speaking. May I ask who this is?”

“Er…hi,” I hesitated, not quite receiving the reply I’d expected. “I’m John’s friend, Matt Rogers. I had arranged to meet him at Southgate hotel at eleven P.M. today. What’s the matter?”

“Mr Rogers, I’m very sorry to inform you that your friend John Grahams has been murdered.”

“Murdered? Holy-“

“Unfortunately, that seems like the case right now. We’re very sorry.”

I was so shocked I could hardly talk.

“Uh...so…where are you right now?”

“We’re behind the Harington Pub in the city centre. Its-“

“Yeah, it’s fine, I know that place. Thanks, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I arrived at the scene, and police officers swarmed around the place like bees. There was no clear explanation which I could give as to why or how he had been murdered. I spoke to P.C. Hartman, who confirmed that I was now a murder suspect in the nicest way he could. I wasn’t angry, as I’d expected it – just horrified. This was someone who I’d spoken to around three hours ago, and now he was lying here dead.

“Is there anyone who you think we should inform?” Asked Hartman. I thought about it for a few seconds.

“I think his family would appreciate knowing,” I said. “I can call them, I have their numbers.”

“Yes. Perhaps it would be better for you to deliver the message.”

He nodded, and I flicked open my cell, looking for a contact.

“Hey, Jack,”

“Hi Mike, what’s up?” Asked John’s brother Jack. He was the first of John’s relatives on my list of contacts.

“Uh, I have some bad news to tell you bro.”

“Uh-oh. What is it?”

“It’s about John,” I sighed.

“What’s he done now?”

“Well, to put it simply, he’s been murdered.”

He paused for a while. I could sense the anger, the frustration, the pain, all beginning to overwhelm him at once.

“WHAT THE FUCK, MIKE? Wh-how? By who? What – what the fuck?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, man.”

“Who the hell did this?”

“I honestly don’t know. What I do know is, I’m a suspect, and you’re probably going to be one too. You’d better get your ass over here pretty damn quickly.”

He paused again.

“Mike…are you playing a fucking joke on me?”

“No, I’m not! I’m telling you, it’s for real.”

“Don’t think this is some sort of game, Mike. If you’re just having a laugh, I’m really going to kill you.”

“I said I’m not! Really, do you think I’d joke around about this kind of thing? There’s police here and everything.”

“Well I dunno.” He became slightly calmer. “You sound a bit suspicious. Plus, you’ve done it before.”

“Yeah, but that was, no-”

Thank for posting stories so i dont have to do everything myself! Good job :D I'll post more pictures later

I was irate. But he had a point. I hung up and went over to the crowd of detectives and policemen, who were just about to wrap the area in yellow tape. Moving in closer, I zoomed in with my cell phone’s crappy camera and turned on night vision mode. The small light at the back shone brightly upon John’s dead body. I snapped a picture, then zoomed to the max and took another.

Blood covered everything in sight. A large, dry red patch sat underneath the corpse, which had a knife in its stomach.

Then I sent them to him, putting a caption on the first, reading ‘JACK THIS IS NOT A JOKE’, and another on the second, reading ‘YOUR BROTHER HAS BEEN MURDERED’. I admit it wasn’t the kindest thing to do given the circumstances, but I needed him to be here quickly. This was serious.

My cell rang; it was Jack. I answered it:

“So do you believe me now?” I asked.

“Mike, I know who did it,” he panted, sounding rather panicked.

“What? How?”

“It was Adam. Argh, shit, now I remember. It must’ve been Adam. I looked at the picture. He’s wearing a leather jacket, right?”

He seemed too sure.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“Well, Adam gave him that jacket two days ago, and…do you remember?”

“No,” I replied, blatantly. “I don’t remember that.”

“What? You don’t? We were at your house!”

“Yeah, but I still don’t remember Adam giving John anything.”

“Ah, dude, you suck. I’ll explain later.”

“Yeah, I don’t get it. Whatever you want to say, come here quickly tell it to the police.”

“Okay, I’ll be there in five. I’ve got to tell mom and dad first.”

I hung up and closed my eyes. He’d seemed so sure that Adam had done it, yet his explanation made absolutely no sense. Even if Adam had given John the leather jacket, how the hell did that automatically make him the killer? Furthermore, Adam didn’t seem like the sort of person to murder someone. But yet, there was something which made him so sure of it.

Jack’s motorbike pulled around the corner. He got off it and took off his helmet. I walked towards him, waving him over to the policemen. He came towards me, shouting.

“Adam…the jacket! It had to be Adam! The pictures!”

“What about the pictures?”

“The jacket!” he saw the group of policemen, signalling him to go over to them. I took out my cell, looking at the photos I had sent to Jack. The leather jacket seemed pretty prominent, but what could that mean? I tried looking at them even more closely, I still couldn’t make a connection.

As he walked away, I suddenly remembered something from our conversation which suddenly made me freeze, standing completely still in terror. It wasn’t something I had said – in fact, it was something that I hadn’t mentioned which caught my attention.

All the ‘Adam’ talk had just been a distraction. The pictures didn’t even matter.

I realised I had never told him the location of the crime scene.

Copy and pasting bits and pieces of stories was too much work, so I'm going to link to a couple good ones. I hope no one minds the creepypasta wikia. It's a good source for this type of thing and I wasted too much good time with the last story.
http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Demonic_Ebony_Virus_Outbreak

I wish I had a waifu.

>>17400414
Beatrice is a fine waifu i think kind sir?

Being a twenty year old is fun, but stressful. To make it through college you have to be able to adjust to the college student's lifestyle.
This means eating a diet of cheap fast food, being able to run off of a few hours of sleep every night, and spending the least amount of money you can.
When I moved up from community college life to university life, I had to move from my parent's place to an apartment. And to save money, I looked for one I could share with a roommate.
The process was harder than I thought it would be. I'd find a nice place, but the other tenant would weird me out. I'd find a place with a nice tenant, but the apartment would be shit.
After five tries, I finally found a place I'd be comfortable in. It was a nice two bedroom, one bath apartment that was fairly new and only a few miles from school. And my roommate was the best so far as well.
A girl, like me, about my age, and also a student. She had a cheery, welcoming vibe to her and immediately made me feel at home. Her name was Cherry.
Cherry showed me around the apartment - from the living room, to the kitchen, to the bathroom, and the bedroom that would be mine. Everything seemed neat and tidy.

She even showed me her room which was painted a pretty bright purple and much more organized than mine had been at home. I'd hoped that my messiness wouldn't get to be too much for her.
I saw everything but the attic, in which the landlord had deemed "untouchable" according to Cherry.
The only complaint I had about the whole space was that it was too cold, but Cherry quickly addressed this by showing me to the thermostat. "You can change it anytime, I don't care." She smiled brightly, and I knew I couldn't help but be friends with her. Not long after seeing the place, I'd already given Cherry my half of the rent, making it official.
A couple days later I had everything moved into my room. Cherry, being the nice person she is, helped me with the task.
Everything was going smoothly. I learned from her that we were going to be attending the same college, even had some of the same classes. And knowing that we had another week to kill before our first day, we decided to just chill out.
We ordered takeout every night, stayed up and watched the worst scary movies we could find on netflix, and passed out on the futon in the living room every morning.
A couple nights before the semester would begin, I decided to take a night out and go to one of the clubs nearby with a friend from back home. I'd asked Cherry to go, but she said partying wasn't her thing.

I didn't argue, and let her know I'd be back late and to leave the outside light on. I left just past eleven.
The night life was way busier in the city, and my friend and I enjoyed not having to party around a bonfire like we often had to do in out small hometown.
We were having so much fun, we didn't leave the club until after three in the morning. I hugged my friend goodbye and she left in a cab.
I'd decided to walk home, which was less than a mile away. I was still pretty tipsy, and it didn't help that when I'd made it up the stairs to our apartment, the outside lights were off.
I fumbled around in the darkness, trying to turn my phone's flashlight on so that I could find my key. I didn't want to wake Cherry, in case she was already asleep.
A few drunken attempts at turning the key and I was back in the cold apartment. I immediately made a beeline for the thermostat and turned the heat up.
Cherry was in the living room again, the credits of some Disney movie rolling across the tv screen. She'd fallen asleep on the couch.
I nudged her awake, "Hey Cherry. I'm back."
She blinked tiredly and rubbed her eyes, "Oh sorry. I must have been out before I could flip on the light."
"It's okay, I'm not as wasted as I thought I'd be." I joked.

She laughed and shook her head. I might not have been that drunk but I was definitely drowsy from all the vodka I'd downed. "I'm gonna go pass out now, too tired for a movie," I said as Cherry grabbed the remote.
"I understand, I'm pretty sleepy myself. Goodnight," she laid back down and rested her eyes back on the tv.
I slowly dragged myself to my room, ready to crash on my bed and sleep. That's when I heard a cell's ringtone from the other bedroom.
Cherry's bedroom door was open, and her phone lit up a bright blue on the nightstand. I groggily turned around to let her know her phone was ringing. But I could hear her snoring soundly and I didn't want to wake her up again at nearly four in the morning.
So I paced back to my room and let the cell ring. Not five minutes after I'd laid down, the ringing started up again. And again a minute later.
Wanting sleep, I got up and shuffled over to Cherry's room. It was dark save for the little light the phone offered.
The contact name "Landlord" flashed across the screen. The call ended before I could pick up. I was shocked to see the number of missed calls she had. Some from "Sis", some from "Jake" and quite a lot from "Landlord".
A text notification popped up. It was from "Landlord". I felt bad, but I had to at least try to call or text back. Luckily, Cherry didn't have a pass code.

>>17400431

but I dont like anime :(

I opened the latest text from "Landlord". It read:
Cherry, this isn't like you. I don't know why you haven't paid rent yet or why you're not responding to any of my calls or texts but I'm a little worried. I know it's late but I'm coming over there to check on things.
Earlier texts read things like:
Cherry, you're late on rent.
If it's a money issue we can work it out.
Cherry, I'd like to help but I need you to answer.
I shook my head in confusion. That's when I noticed the $200 I'd paid Cherry earlier in the week for rent. "What the fuck?" I was a little upset, I didn't think Cherry would be a slacker. Maybe I'd made the wrong choice about moving in.
I reached for the money on the nightstand. However, beside it I'd found a folded piece of notebook paper. "Please Read" was written across it in bold black letters.
I opened it up, and began reading what was written inside:

I'm sorry,
Steph, you're the best sister I could ask for. You've been there through everything. When Mom left, you were there to hold me. When Dad died, you were there to wipe the tears away. You've made me into what I am today. I could have never been this independent and mature without you. I know you'll be in London for another two weeks so I don't know if you'll be the one to find this. Jake, I love you, too. I love you even through the fights and disagreements we've had over the last year and a half. I'm sorry for ending things the way I did. It may have seemed cruel but I didn't want you coming to try and fix things. I didn't want you to find this. Carla, you've been too generous and understanding to me ever since you rented out the apartment to me. I'd hate for you to find me like this, you've been somewhat like the mother I never had. I just couldn't handle the depression anymore. A smile really can hide a lot. So someone else will find this, and let you all know without the pain of seeing me this way. I've made sure of it. If you're that someone, and you're reading this, I'm sorry. You may want to check the attic now,
Cherry"

>>17400467
How about manga then? It's pretty good i can even link it for you... Also the visual novel is not that bad :)

http://mangafox.me/manga/umineko_no_naku_koro_ni_episode_1_legend_of_the_golden_witch/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mNIK4X6EkgY

Okay, so before i go any farther, i want you guys to know that I’m not one to be easily intimidated or spooked by the supernatural. The closest I’ve come to supernatural is the tv show, and i have seen maybe an episode and a half of the entire show. Beside the point. So the other day i was in my room in the middle of an important test for my personal finance class (i do online schooling) and my grandpa walks in. Before i tell you the next part, i should probably inform you that my grandparents (and myself in some aspects) are deeply religious. Anytime my grandpa has a dream, he always finds a way to interpret it into something else. basically i feel like he likes to over spiritualize things. I’ve become accustomed to his “spiritual dreams” and they didn’t bother me much. He usually didn’t feel the need to tell me about them, he would just tell my grandma, and being a babbler, she would tell me. Well this particular dream was important enough for him to come in and interrupt an important test for. I was sitting on my best contemplating why Susie would spend $25.75 to go see a movie six times, and how that was financially not a good choice considering her monthly income, when he walks in and comes to the end of my bed and patiently stands there. I look up from my test waiting for him to get on to me about never leaving my room or not getting enough sleep, but instead he just stands there. I decide to speak first as the encounter was becoming awkward and i ask him what he wanted. He moves almost grudgingly farther into my room before speaking.

“I had a dream last night,”…he says, almost too quiet to pick up.”we need to do a lot of praying….all of us.” At this point I’m looking at him in a dazed confusion, stuck between disbelief and hysteria. Why the heck would we have to do a lot of praying. Without saying it out loud my grandpa saw my confused expression and pushed on. “Last night, i saw a figure in my dream, a demon. He was hideous. Bout scared the hell outta me. Thank the good lord my heart didn’t stop cause i swear to you this thing could make your blood run cold. He started walking towards me..in the dream i mean. I couldn’t move and so i was forced to just watch as he got closer. He got inches away from my face, bout dang near peed myself, and then he stopped and turned and went downstairs. I followed. He looked like he was familiar with the house and knew where everything was, which scared me a little. We passed the kitchen and front room. He didn’t seem to know i was following him and if he did, he didn’t care. We walked all the way down the hall and he stopped in front of your closed door. He stopped a moment before he opened the door to your room and walked in. When the door was opened you were sleeping there on your bed, not a care in the world. and then the thing…the demon,” he paused to look me deep in the eyes. “…he turned around and gave me the scariest smile you ever saw….he knew i was there. He just stood there..smiling at me…then he walked over to where you were sleeping and lifted the covers from your body and laid down with you, still smiling at me. I think your in trouble Destiny……i think we should

all pray…long and hard…whatever this thing is it wants you.” I sat on my bed, no longer paying attention to Susie or her poor choice of spending. After snapping out of my trance i acknowledged my grandpa, trying to sound braver than i felt and assured him i would be fine, but told him i would keep the situation in my prayers, and showed him out of my room.
Abandoning my test completely, i begin to rethink the sanity of my entire family. A demon? Yeah right. What would a demon possibly want from me or my family. We weren’t bad people. We literally didn’t do anything to draw such a supernatural being to our home. He must have eaten something weird before he went to sleep. Theres no other explanation. No such thing is in this house, in my room, and there is nothing to be worried about. I laughed it off and decided to go about my life, finishing my test and going about my usual day. If there was a demon after me, he was being quite friendly. The following week went along quite normally. My grandma and grandpa weren’t as on edge as they were the day grandpa had told me of his nightmare. Everything seemed to have gone back to normal. That is…until things started being misplaced.
At first it was small things like my socks would be in the wrong drawer, or my shoes would be mismatched and under my bed. I blamed my little brother, accusing him of going in my room and moving things around. After all, he was no stranger to getting into my things. this went on for a week before it was more obvious things. My TV would be in my closet, and my bed would be on the other side of the room…too big for my brother to move by himself. I confronted

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>>17392132
ikuko hachijo pls

my grandma, asking if her or my grandpa had moved my stuff around. She said no, asking me if i had been sleepwalking or if i had moved them and not remembered. i told her i probably forgot moving them, so not to worry her and arise the previous fear of a demon in our home. Nights wore on and i started hearing noises. it started out as little noises like maybe the wind blowing roughly against my window, or light tapping, or even creaking of the floor, but then, things got worse. I woke up at 3:33 in the morning one morning and just sat there with my eyes open. i heard a voice whispering directly into my ear, the voice was so close, yet i couldn’t make out what it was saying. i saw a figure pace my room. i could only see the outline but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. After i woke up i just choked it up to a bad case of sleep paralysis and tried to move on.
This went on for about a month. Then just like that it stopped. I no longer heard voices or saw dark figures, things in my room no longer seemed to be misplaced or moved. Everything was oddly peaceful. I started sleeping normal again. There was something odd about it though…..i seemed almost misplaced. Like it wasn’t me controlling my actions, or body. I don’t know if it was the way my grandma looked at me before i threw her down the stairs, or if it was the horrified look on my grandpas face when i smiled at him from across the casket of her body.I don’t know, i just can’t put my finger on it. Hmm. Well, I’m off to bed. You crazy mortals get some rest now, sleep tight, and don’t let the demons bite.

>>17400799
She aint on Beatos leve.

if…. is the greatest film ever made. Whatever anyone may say, it does nothing to deny the truth that if…. is a sublime masterpiece. An exquisite display of rebellion against conformity, of tradition, of rules, and the triumph of the individual over the institution. The first time I ever saw if…. I fainted. Stendhal syndrome. I was so moved, so affected. I could scarcely explain it. People thought I was weird. Well, I suppose they thought that anyway. But my growing obsession with if…. only solidified that appearance.
I first saw if…. when I was 15. I was still in Secondary School. I had no friends to speak of. I was constantly bullied. I had been since Primary School. The teachers hated me. My best efforts were met with constant derision. My sports abilities were met with constant mocking, from both students and the P.E. teachers. Girls hated me. They thought I was weird. Because I stayed by myself at lunchtime, because I wrote in my little notebook. I pretended not to care. But Christ I did. I cared so much. I knew though that it did not matter. I knew I was more intelligent than them. Should one care when about the opinions of others when one is so obviously superior to them? Back to if…. It was a Saturday night, and film4 were doing a Masters of British Cinema week. They showed if…. and I just happened to be watching. In that moment, I quite simply became obsessed with it. I immediately bought the DVD, and watched it

well over a hundred times. And that is not an exaggeration. I would rewind the final scene and watch it again and again and again. At school, I would sit in lessons unable to concentrate, thinking about if…. I wrote constantly to Malcolm McDowell, asking to meet him, but he never responded. I became obsessed.
A year later, I was 16, and about to start my GCSE’s. I knew I was going to fail. My teachers did. My parents did too. No one believed in me. No one offered any encouragement. No one told me I was good. One day, in P.E., we were playing rugby. The ball was thrown to me. I had a clear run to the touchline. I dropped the ball. The shouted at me, they pushed me, they threw me in the mud. The teacher did nothing. In the changing room, they threw my uniform and my schoolbag in the shower, drenching it. They then beat me up. I was then late to my next lesson. I was given a detention. I went home seething and bubbling with rage. I watched if…. The final scene…that final scene.
I have been asked innumerable times to describe what happened, but it is the honest truth that I find it difficult to remember exactly. I believe I got the gun from my Grandfather. In his garage, he had a Bren machine gun from the Second World War which had never been decommissioned. I may have transported it to school in a large carrier bag. I think I started in the P.E. block. I vaguely remember kicking open the staffroom door, then all I can remember is

seeing the blood-soaked corpses lying contorted on the floor. I then moved to the English block, where my form room was, and where registration was being taken. I remember the terror-stricken screams of my classmates as I gunned them down. I remember a particular bully of mine, who had persecuted me since Primary School, trying to scrabble away to safety. I remember his face exploding and his brains coating the wall. I remember climbing the fire escape and standing on the roof, firing into the crowd that attempted to flee. Oh, the glorious screams of terror. That is all I can bring to memory.
According to the police report, I was apprehended while lying flat on my back and watching the sky with a “faraway expression”. Large portions of my retribution are blanked out in my mind. I killed a lot more people than I can remember. But I do not care. They deserved it. All of them.
It is not the imprisonment. It is not the national outrage. It is not the tear-filled accusations from bereaved loved ones. It is that they will not let me watch if…. Please God I just want to watch if….

Holy fucking shit why are there more fucking people in that wizard divination thread than here? I remember the good old days where we posted pastas all day long and actually held good conversation. 4chan is dead... /x/ is dead... its full of fucking cancer kids trying to learn occult to get rich... fucking hell im old.....

>>17400863
It's always been like this, you just got tired of it. Even when Frater Z tried to create legit threads people would just shit all over him.

>>17396646
I remember that Anon. Good on you to not he a dumb ass.

“Son, we need to have a chat about Internet Safety.” I slowly crumpled down onto the floor next to him. His laptop was open and he was playing Minecraft on a public server. His eyes were locked into the action. Comments scrolled down the side of the screen in a chat box. “Son, can you stop your game for a minute?”
He exited the world, closed the laptop, and looked up at me. "Dad, is this going to be another cheesy scary story?"
"Whhaaaat?" I faked hurt feelings for a second, and then grinned at him, "I thought you liked my cautionary tales?" He grew up listening to my stories about children who encountered witches, ghosts, werewolves, and trolls. Like many generations of parents, I used scary stories to reinforce morals and teach lessons about safety. Single dads like me should use all the parenting tools at their disposal.
He scrunched his face a little, "They were fine when I was six. But now that I'm getting older, they don't scare me anymore. They seem kinda silly. If you are going to tell a story about the Internet, can you make it really, really scary!?” I squinted at him incredulously. He folded his arms, “Dad. I’m ten and I can handle it."
"hmm… okay... I’ll try."

I began, “Once upon a time, there was a boy named Colby….” His expression indicated that he wasn't impressed with the terror of the introduction. He sighed deeply and settled in for one of Dad’s cheesy stories. I continued...
Colby went online and joined several children's websites. After a while, he started talking to other kids in-game and on the message boards. He made friends with another ten year old boy named Helper23. They liked the same video games and shows. They laughed at each other's jokes. They explored new games together.
After several months of friendship, Colby gave Helper23 six diamonds in a game they were playing. This was a very generous gift. Colby's birthday was coming up and Helper23 wanted to send him a cool present in real life. Colby figured it wouldn't hurt to give Helper23 his home address - as long as he promised not to tell it to any strangers or grownups. Helper23 swore he wouldn't tell anyone else, not even his own parents, and set about mailing the package.
I paused the story and asked my son, "Do you think that was a good idea?” “No!" he said shaking his head vigorously. In spite of himself, he was getting into the story.
Well neither did Colby. Colby felt guilty about giving away his home address - and his guilt began to grow. And grow. By the time he put on his pajamas the next night, his guilt and fear were larger than anything else in his life. He resolved to admit the truth to his parents. The punishment would be steep, but it was worth it to have a clear conscience. He squirmed in his bed as he waited for his parents to tuck him in.

My son knew the scary part was coming up. In spite of his tough talk, he leaned forward wide-eyed. I spoke quietly and deliberately.
He heard all the noises of the house. The washing machine bounced around in the laundry room. Branches scraped against the brick outside his room. His baby brother cooed in the nursery. And there were some other noises he couldn't... quite... pinpoint. Finally, his dad’s footsteps echoed down the hall. “Hey Dad?” He called out nervously. “I have something to tell you.”
His dad stuck his head in the doorway at a weird angle. In the darkness, his mouth didn't seem to move and the eyes were all wrong. "Yes, son" The voice was way off, too. "Are you okay, Dad?" The boy asked. "Uh-huh" sung the father in his strangely affected voice. Colby pulled his covers up defensively. "Ummm... Is Mom around?"
"Here I am!" Mom's head popped into the doorway below Dad's. Her voice was an unnatural falsetto. "Were you about to tell us that you gave our home address to Helper23? You shouldn't have done that! We TOLD you never to give out personal information on the Internet!"
She continued, "He wasn't really a kid! He just pretended to be one. Do you know what he did? He came to our house, broke in, and murdered both of us! Just so he could spend some time with you!"
A fat man in a wet jacket emerged in the child's doorway holding the two severed heads. Colby shrieked and gasped as the man dropped the heads on the ground, unsheathed his knife, and moved into the room to work on the boy.
My son screamed too. He twisted his hands defensively over his face. But we were just getting started with the story.

After several hours, the boy was almost dead and his screams had become whimpers. The killer noticed the wailing of a baby in another room and removed his knife from Colby. This was a special treat. He had never murdered a baby before and was excited about the prospect. Helper23 left Colby to die and followed the cries through the house like a homing beacon.
In the nursery, he walked to the crib, picked the baby up, and held it in his arms. He moved towards the changing table to get a better look. But as he held the baby, the crying died down. The baby looked up and smiled. Helper23 had never held a baby, but he gently bounced it in his arms like a pro. He wiped his bloody hands on the blanket so he could stroke the baby's cheek, "Hey there, sweet little guy." The beautiful rage of sadism melted into something warmer and softer.
He walked out of the nursery, took the baby home, named him William, and raised him as his very own.
After I finished the story, my son was visibly shaken. Between ragged staccato breaths, he stammered, "But Dad, MY name's William." I gave him a classic dad-wink and tousled his hair. "Of course it is, son." William ran up the stairs to his bedroom in a fury of sobs.

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Anon, whoever you are, thanks for posting this. Sorry about all these little fags trying to ruin a good thread. Also, story.

>>17402823
Good story Anon,let's bring some old school pastas back. I'll post more later.

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enjoyed these! thanks anon

>>17403191
^^
I thought I was a cat person, until I actually got a cat for myself.
Charlie the tabby was special. First off, she was a girl cat with a boy’s name. I’m not sure why I gave her a boy’s name. It just seemed to fit her. She was a bright orange color. Her fat stomach hung almost to the floor, swinging side to side like the udders of a cow. She looked like a chubby puddle of fur. But her most unique quality was her voice.
She didn’t meow like a normal cat. Instead, she bleated. I mean this cat went full on goat every single morning. My boyfriend Ned and I would be curled up in bed, still dreaming, and right around 5am Charlie would start the call of her people. It sounded just like this.
Now I want you to imagine a 20 pound cat-goat stepping on your face bleating at you as though you haven’t fed her in a month. This was our morning every day. Charlie would keep at it until one of us would relent and get up to fill her food bowl. Eventually Ned convinced me to close the door to our bedroom so she couldn’t be quite as obnoxious. She still bleated outside but at least it wasn’t right in our ears.
Don’t get me wrong – I loved Charlie. She was super affectionate and cuddly. She didn’t have those annoying cat habits of scratching the furniture or biting for no reason. I would call her name from across the apartment and she would trot over, udders flopping in the wind. After we shut our door at night I really missed snuggling her. I missed hearing her little purrs and snores as she slept. But it was a sacrifice Ned and I agree needed to be done.

After a long time with Charlie Ned and I got really good at imitating her “meow.” Instead of calling Ned’s name I would just yell, “MEHHHHHHHHHHHH” and he would know what it meant. Every time she would talk to us we’d respond in turn. “MEHHHH,” she’d yelp. “MEHHHHHH,” we’d quip back. It became little conversations. My friends would tease me over how much sounded like Charlie. But she was so fun to copy!
All of this changed a week ago. Ned and I had finished watching a movie and decided to head to sleep. I kissed Charlie on the head and then we kicked her out of the bedroom. I closed the door with my eyes closed to avoid seeing her little eyes watching me leave her out. We crawled into bed and Ned spooned me. I remember a feeling of contentment. Everything seemed right in the world as Ned held me. I fell asleep easily.
Around midnight I was rocked awake by the cat-goat bleating from the other room. “MEHHHHH,” she screamed outside the door. It wasn’t her normal call. This one sounded upset. I knew Ned had woken up as well because he started grumbling. “Just ignore her,” I whispered sleepily. “She’ll stop soon.”
But Charlie didn’t stop. She just kept at it. Ned rolled over in frustration.
I moved up onto my arm. “Did we feed her dinner?”
Ned rubbed his eyes. “I can’t remember.”
We looked at each other and at the same time said, “Not it!” We both laughed groggily. I ran a hand through his hair. “Girlfriend always wins,” I whispered in his ear.

He chuckled and sat up. I couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but I knew the curves of kindness by heart. I reached up to touch him. He grabbed my fingers and kissed them. Then he swung his legs off the bed. He stood, slightly off balance. Charlie had quieted at the sound of Ned getting up. He opened the bedroom door and said, “What’s the matter, fatty?” before closing it behind him.
I pulled the covers back up over my shoulders. I heard Charlie bleat a few more times. I was sure that once Ned filled her bowl she would shut up and we could get back to sleep. But ten minutes went by and Ned didn’t return. I wondered what the hell he was doing out there.
“MEHHHHH,” I called to him.
“MEHHHH,” Charlie returned.
Then there were a few minutes of silence. I waited anxiously for Ned to say something. All of sudden Charlie erupted in a loud series of cries. The sound of so many bleats in a row made me worried. I got up and turned the light on. Charlie was still crying as I opened the door.
Charlie shut up the second the door opened. None of the lights were on in the rest of the house. “Ned?” I said uneasily. I turned on the light in the hallway but no one was there. I didn’t see Charlie or Ned. I walked into the living room. Nothing moved. I went in closer to investigate but it all looked normal. Suddenly the light in the kitchen went on.

>>17403643
:0 continue!

I froze. “Ned, this isn’t funny.” I tip toed to the door of the kitchen, nervous to go in.
Then I heard Charlie bleat at me from inside, “MEHHHH.”
With a sigh of relief I entered the kitchen.
There was Ned with my biggest steak knife sticking out of his windpipe. He was slunk against the refrigerator. His eyes were open and terrified. I gasped and went to touch him. He felt stiff. I put my hand against his neck and he wasn’t breathing. I started to hyperventilate. And that’s when I noticed something from the corner of my eye. It was Charlie. Except she wasn’t inside the kitchen, she was out on the fire escape. She was clawing at the window trying to get in.
I was looking at Charlie when the pantry door sprang open. I leapt back and fell onto the floor. With intricate movements something crawled out of the pantry. At first I thought it was sort of animal but it raised its head and I realized it was a man. He was naked and panting. He crouched on all fours. His face was painted with four black lines running from his nose out to his cheeks. I tried to scream but nothing would come out of my mouth. The man rubbed up against Ned, making a soft humming sound. He then moved towards me. He sat up like a feline. He stuck his tongue out and started to lick his arm. He dragged his tongue from his shoulder to his wrist. His eyes then turned to me. With a cocked head he said, “MEHHHHHH.”

He imitated Charlie perfectly.
That is when I found the voice to scream.
The scream must have startled the man, because he ran right over me into the other room. He was screeching. I dug into the floor and stood, whipping open the fire escape window. I threw myself out the small space and nearly fell off the landing. Charlie was crying and terrified. I grabbed her under my arm.
The man was suddenly back in the kitchen trying to crawl out of the window. I used my free arm to slam the windowpane down as hard as I could. I captured his fingers between the wood. He yowled like a feral cat. I slammed down the emergency stairs. I climbed them so fast I might as well have been flying. Charlie and I took off into the night. I was screaming for help.
I must have looked insane, running down the street with a bleating cat under my arm.
Someone called the cops. They caught up with me a few streets down. Finally I was safe. In the back of the cop car I caught the sight of a man galloping in the bushes with whiskers painted on his face. I squeezed Charlie tight to my chest. She looked at me, a bit offended, and said, “Meow.”

>>17403649
Done,if you want more stories just ask.I feel kinda bad since only me and a few anons are posting stories. Wish more people would join in.

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>>17403656
nice!! that was creepy. poor ned though.

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>>17403663
don't feel bad! this is my first freaky fettucini, based on a dream i had. hope it's tasty

They all said I was insane. And they were probably right, at least to a point.

Hakune Mitsu, the popular vocaloid. The first time I heard her voice, I was entranced. I was a typical weeb, albeit a self conscious one. I knew she was not 'real,' and yet, I was intrigued. She was beautiful. I wanted more of her. I wanted her to be real, so very badly.

Little did I know was that I was not alone in this wish.

I was embarrassed by my affection for her. At first it was purely romantic. I kept it to a minimum. Just a few pictures downloaded. Nothing too weird. But the images haunted my dreams.

I wanted her so badly . . .

I wanted her to sing for me, for me alone.

I was simultaneously disgusted with myself, but at the same time, I was falling deeper and deeper into an infatuation with an animated persona. She wasn't real, I told myself. And yet I observed her face, her eyes, heard her voice in my ears. I wanted nothing more than for her to be real, and to be by my side.

So naturally, I turned to fapping. Before bed, every night, I listened to her pixellated voice. I imagined her aqua eyelashes fluttering gently, turquoise hair cascading over my body. Her touch was gentle and sweet. I came so hard imagining her mouth lewdly fused to my lower body, sucking gently on my chest, on my earlobe, my lower lip. Every night with her was different, exciting. Her hands knew me so well, her voice was all kinds of music to my ears. Every night I drew closer and closer to her, sexually, but also spiritually – I felt so close to her. Her perfect form had such power over me, and I willingly gave my own power away.

I was happy.

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>>17403743
But she was changing. Where before her personality had been sweet, almost childlike, she now had become . . . hungrier. Lustful. Fierce. I looked into her eyes in my mind, every night, hands clenched tight under the bedsheets, and I wondered if I was losing my mind. She was not real - except, here she was.

Had I animated her with the continual spilling of my seed? My life was falling apart. I had nothing to look forward to other than our nightly rendezvous. My other relationships were slipping away. I didn't know who I was in relation to her. She seemed to demand nothing of me, and yet, I willingly gave her everything.

Things escalated. I began to see her out of the corner of my eye, unbidden. I felt slight touches on the small of my back throughout the day. Once I found a long strand of perfect aquamarine hair, draped over my pillow. I was fucking losing my mind. But her touch was just compelling enough to keep me hanging on, wanting more. Needing her.

One night I decided to resist touching myself. I stayed up late, watching her on youtube. The 3D form, the CGI creation of her dancing had ceased to become anything but a joke to me now. I had seen her. She was as real as the sun, as entrancing as the moon, and the animated images were a paltry shadow of the real spirit which I now knew by heart. I needed to bring her over into this world. She had chosen me.

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>>17403748
I crawled into bed and started the nightly ritual. I was determined. I knew I was making her real. If I could only push a little further, she would stop haunting me and live with me instead. A real person in a real world. Her songs, her voice, were pleas for help. I was the only one, the only one with the power, the only one who believed, the only one who understood just how flesh and blood she really was.

I began to masturbate. I came again and again and again. I came again until I passed out, and when I came to I took a swig of whiskey and kept at it. Her voice was pushing through the veil. Her hands, her eyes, her touch, taking on more and more physical strength the more my own life bled out of me. I began to see stars, little blue stars in my field of vision. I began to lose consciousness for good.

I awakened not as myself. I was viewing the world from behind aqua tinted vision. I had faint memories mixed in with blue clouds and muddled melodies. Everything felt jumbled, confused. I heard music, familiar, familiar to my core, but it had no meaning. Unbidden, my body began to dance. I looked down at a flowing skirt and shapely legs. I felt a sense of nagging loss, so unbearable I could not draw it properly up into my mind. It felt easier, it felt so good to just relax, to forget, to give in. My mouth opened and a perfect sound came out.

In the dark, a large, mean looking man with beady eyes smiled grimly. He wore a black velvet cloak, draped unflatteringly over his bulging belly. Here was the programmer, the magician, the animator of spirit and soul. A vocaloid is not real, some say - but still you can see and hear it. This man can sense who could be swayed by the magic, the neverending pursuit of the unattainable. He programmed his creations to absorb the souls of the willing, and his creations become ever more real in the process. A few more souls from now he will harvest the spirit of Miku herself. And perhaps then the real fun would begin.

I'm what's called an "empath", meaning I'm really in tune with the emotions other people are feeling. I can typically feel another person's emotions without them saying anything about it. I'm very good at connecting with animals and babies, because their communication is entirely nonverbal. I even mirror people's tone of voice without even realizing it. It's just how I've been my whole life, and it's never been worse than a nuisance.
When I was a kid, I had empathy for everyone. My mother raised me as wiccan until the age of six or so, and a few years after she left that faith, she converted to Christianity. Those early wiccan teachings still stuck with me though, and I never wanted to hurt anyone or anything unless I had to. Through middle school, I guess I felt like I had to sometimes, but I'm not like that anymore. In some ways, I'm worse than I was in elementary.
You see, I really, really like monsters, to the point where it's considered a fetish- teratophilia, to be exact. When I see a "scary" illustration online, my typical first instinct is to call it my boyfriend, as a joke, but I'm never sure how much I'm actually joking. For the last few years I've had the belief that, should some shuddering mass of limbs and flesh appear before me, I would offer it a cup of tea and a cookie before anything else. And why wouldn't I? Scary things feel emotions too, somewhere deep down. Anger is reflexive, an emotion felt in response to pain or sadness. If they can feel anger, they can feel other feelings too.

That's what I though until yesterday.
I decided last week that I would finally have the monster in my home that I so desperately wanted. I could drape my hand over the edge of my bed at night, and they would reach out with gaunt, rough-skinned fingers to lock with mine. I would work during the day, and then come home in the evening to my loving haunt, ready to cradle me close, no urge to hurt me because I had no fear of them. I'm different. I love them, and they can feel it- a feeling they've never felt before me.
Of course, this wasn't free. I read all I could about summoning and the darker side of magic, and earlier tonight I finally acted on it. First, I had to kidnap someone- a sacrifice. A summoning made with the blood, something that once held life, is the strongest summoning you can get. And, like I said, I broke my code for this. I'm not a small woman by any means, and under the layer of chub I have some pretty mean muscle mass, so finding a thin, pretty girl and stuffing her into the trunk of my car wasn't even that hard. She fought a little, but eventually she gave up.
So, I drive this girl back to my house- at this point I should mention I had to tie her up- and cart her down to the basement. It's about 1:30 as I'm doing this, maybe a little later? I'm not sure of the time frame exactly. I left her in the middle of the floor, in the chalk circle I'd drawn in preparation, and then the ritual began.
My new girlfriend was supposed to be beautiful.

I know now that I was wrong- like, really, really fucked up kind of wrong, but also mistaken wrong- but at the time, all I could think about was running my hands through my lover's hair, kissing her gently, being held tightly while the stench of sulfur burns into my hair and clothing...
...but now I think it's too late. She's pounding on my basement door now. She figured a way to get out of all of my salt circles, past all the talismans, all the way up the stairs, but the sigils on the doorframe seem to be slowing her down long enough for me to warn everyone else. It's only, like, 6:30 at the time of writing. Maybe she'll go away if I can hold out until daybreak.
Regardless of whether I live through this or not, listen: if you stay here, reading about the occult instead of socializing, making time for horror stories and not for friends, sooner or later you start to empathize with the wrong side of the narrative. And if you do that- don't make the mistake of showing them that empathy. The demons you see in the media, that's just how people portray them. The people in the costumes, they have feelings of anger.
But what monsters feel isn't anger. What's coming from the other side of that basement door?

It's bloodlust.
I can only hope that when she tears me to shreds, she eats me too. I really, desperately, want to be a part of her, if only for tonight.

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>>17403776
oh shit haha. this gets to me.

>>17403799
Doesn't it to us all?

Let's start a new theme. 6 words horror stories. Hope you enjoy and i'll post all i can find.

Buried in a steel casket. Immortal.

“This is our secret,” whispered daddy.

Hungrily eating her child, she wept.

>>17403843
Toys and bones break so easily.

Pearly teeth mingled with moist dirt.

Sticky candy dripped from bleeding grins.

Ice cold fingers, warm neck; midnight.

Stop! Red light. Life flashing. Nothing.

Such beautiful eyes. I kept them.

Twin moons, midnight fur; black cat.

"Fresh Meat For Sale: Uninfected Child"

I screamed. My reflection watched, smiling.

"Keep screaming. We're already inside you."

The screams stopped, one by one.

Molly awoke with a jolt, heaving in air as if she hadn't enjoyed breath in a while. The sound of rain drumming hard drowned out her heavy panting, as it struck metal with rhythmic inconsistency. Or was it pavement?
Molly felt her head slowly getting heavier, and realised with a wave of panic, that she was upside down.
Her blurred vision started regaining focus, and she noticed the dashboard and steering wheel in front of her. Around her she could see shards of glass, scattered everywhere like a frozen spider web torn to pieces.
Scattered too, were Molly’s recollection of why she would come to, in what she assumed to be a flipped car.
She remembered bits and pieces, but they were as blurred as her vision, only slowly taking shape, in no particular order and with no clear point of beginning or end. She remembered a house. But not why she was there.
She had a clear vision of herself driving down a paved road, with the rain pounding down on the windshield, mirroring the tears that streamed down her cheeks while she was laughing, almost hysterically with happiness. Or was it relief?
In the house, she recalled, she wasn’t happy or relieved, but crouching in a cold, damp corner of an unlit room, hoping against hope that the footsteps she heard weren’t coming this way. She remembered the feeling of futility. Of knowing that whoever made those footsteps were heading her way, because he always was.

Molly struggled to move, but no matter how much effort she put into it, her left leg was thoroughly stuck.
She remembered headlights in her rear-view mirror as she was driving, and a sudden panic quickly evaporating any trace of happiness or relief, whichever one it was. The headlights grew bigger, almost blinding her now, and Molly hit the gas so hard, she might have feared her foot going through the floor of the car, if she wasn’t so afraid of going back to that house should the driver behind her catch her again.
If it had been him in the other car. She couldn’t be sure, and as she hung upside down in a flipped car, Molly allowed herself a short burst of exaltation, imagining that help could be right outside her field of vision.
And then she saw the headlights, approaching slowly. The other car stopped twenty feet away from where Molly hung helplessly, still strapped into the drivers seat.
The rain was beating down heavier now, and Molly couldn’t hear the low rumbling of the other car, as it sat in the middle of the road. It was still idling when the driver’s side door opened and someone stepped out.
Between the rain and her continuing dizziness, Molly couldn’t make out the person from the other car as he approached the wreck.
It wasn’t until she was violently torn from the car by her hair, snapping the seatbelt and almost severing her leg, that Molly knew.
This wasn’t rescue.

From now on with each chapter of a horror story i'll post a picture of Beatrice.

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Let me start off by explaining that I live alone and don't really leave the house unless its for work or a party.
So my story takes place a year ago. It was mid summer and I was invited to a bonfire party by one of my good friends. Of course I would go because I loved both bonfires and parties, so I pack my rucksack with beer and my camera (as I love photography). My buddy picks me up in his truck and drives me and our other two friends to the party, It was an open field that sat on the edge of a large forest. There was maybe 50 people there, most of which I had seen or met before, however there were a few people I didn't know. About an hour in, I'm a little drunk and have taken loads of pictures on my camera. So I found my buddy and asked him if I could lock my rucksack and camera in his truck, he agreed and gave me his keys, as I walked towards his truck I checked my rucksack to ensure that it was locked (I Keep a number coded padlock on it to keep my camera safe).

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I placed it on the backseat I locked the bag and the truck and returned to the party. After the party we drove home; my buddy didn't drink. I woke up the next morning slightly hungover and decided to retrieve my camera from my bag and look over the photos from the previous night.
I unlocked the lock from my rucksack and looked inside. I saw my camera and one of the beers i didn't drink, however they were not the only thing in my bag, there was a small skull of a fox or a dog.
I have no idea how it go inside as I am the only one who knows my passcode for the lock. However it is the next part that made me write this up. I placed the skull on my bedside table and passed it off as a joke that one of my friends played on me. It was a Saturday and Saturdays are the days I go food shopping for the week. When I returned the skull had moved onto my pillow. This scared me to be totally honest. I couldn't be 100% sure that I didn't place it there instead of my bedside table. It was the day after when the skull went missing from my room. It was now I was 100% sure that it was not me making mistakes or misplacing the skull.

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Like I said in the introduction I live alone and nobody has a house key other than me, and my mother who lives a two hour drive away.
So the skull goes missing, but it doesn't stop there, I started to receive mail, small envelops with what I assumed to be skull fragments inside, This went on for three weeks and then stopped.

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Once upon a when-I-was-younger, my mother and father made the god-awful decision to pack up their shit and move to a house out in the middle of isolation.
It really wasn't that bad of a house, a spacious 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom farmhouse looking motherfucker with great views, a nice chunk of land, and working plumbing. It'd been on the market for a steal for a variety of reasons including some problems with the insulation and the fact that the husband portion of the previous owner package had snapped one night and beaten his wife 80% dead with the furniture. We were also informed by a few of the local starchildren that the whole valley my parents had decided to set pegs down in was considered a no-go zone for those wishing to keep their auras untainted or some shit. Something, something, gateway to hell and all that whimsical fuckery.
Everything went well for the first two or three years, after which everything started turning ass-up in a real goddamn hurry. As far as I remember, it started with my cat.

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She'd been a stray kitten I'd fished out of the ever growing pile of crap my dad had gotten into the habit of storing out near the barn and been a prefect snuggle-bug for her whole life until the night when, on her way to the kitchen and her food dish, she'd stopped at the basement door and sat, frozen, until my dad had come along and tried to go down the stairs. The second, and I mean the single fucking second, he'd cracked the door she lost her shit in spectacular fashion. Claws were out, blood was shed, legs were violently shaved, and noises that I'd never heard come out of anything echoed through the hallway.

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When we'd finally secured her in a bathroom my dad turned to me and said "either that fucking cat lives in the basement from now on or I'll feed her to the coyotes myself." Despite my protests, my cat was moved permanently and away from the rest of the house. For the first night she cried, on the second she'd scratched at the door so aggressively that I had to pick splintered wood out of her paws the next morning, on the third she'd crouched in the corner between the top step and the door and remained there for the whole day after refusing to eat, drink, or play. After that I rarely saw her, she got thinner and more neurotic, her fur started falling out and she'd move only by slinking quickly from room room, one side always pressed against the wall.

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I begged my tiny-child heart out to my dad to let her out of the basement or at least to let me take her to the vet, but money was tight and my dad was a douche, and so there she stayed.
One morning I went downstairs to discover her missing and one of the windows smashed and bloody. I never found her or saw her around again, and I never really forgave dad.
With my cat gone, my dad converted the basement into a music studio/avoid the rest of the family room and began to spend more time there. And then more time there. And then more time there. Eventually it was rarer to see him than to not and when he did emerge into the light of the upper floors, it was never to be pleasant.
While he'd never been father-of-the-year material, he'd never been quite this bad. He abuses got more creative, more threatening, and a fuckton more severe. We ran when he got too bad, we hid when we couldn't run, and when we couldn't hide... well... no one's childhood is perfect.

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We'd been in the house about 10 years when dad really started to lose it. He started complaining about growling, and barking at all hours of the night and day. He'd storm upstairs in the middle of the night to flip mattresses and search closets all while screaming that when he 'found that fucking dog' he was going to kill it. We obviously had no dog; I, in fact, had never even gotten another pet after what had happened to my cat. He never listened to a word any of us said during these beserker moments, so we all just sat back and tolerated his behavior in the way that helpless people do.
Then, when I was somewhere between clear skin and crater faced, the bank repossessed the house and we were not-so-subtlety encouraged to get our shit and go before the muscly arm and well greased palm of the law got involved. Dad finished packing up everything of his first and headed out to our new living situation for the first run of dumping.

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While he was gone, my mother pulled me aside and asked if I could check the basement for anything he missed so that he wouldn't have an excuse to go back down and delay the move. I think I said something along the lines of "Hell no, it's creepy down there." to which she responded along the lines of "Just go fucking do it before I go upside your head."
So down I went. It wasn't a huge area so it didn't take me very long to glance from room to room and confirm their emptiness. There wasn't much light coming in from the windows though, and since the electricity to the house had already been cut off for... a while... it was a little hard to see into corners and into a closet/pantry/knook area in what was, of course, the darkest part of the basement. Not wanting the endure the sweet concussive kisses of Mr. Wooden Spoon, I started towards it cautiously.
Something growled, low and quiet. I froze as the sunlight flickered through spotty clouds and hit what looked like a pair of eyes in the recesses of the closet, almost the height of my chest. I took a step, the growling stopped, I stopped, and I heard the sound of fur scraping against wood as something in the closet began to move.

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And then I fucking bolted. I took the stairs three at a time and based against the basement door so hard that knocked the knob loose. My mom called me a chicken and asked if everything was gone. I told her yes and that I wasn't going back down and there was no reason for anyone to go back down and could we please finish packing up everything and leave. We finished packing in silence. I wasn't sure what, if anything, I'd seen down there and I wasn't about to make an ass out of myself screaming about a monster in the corner because damnit I had some dignity. Just before we left the house for the last time though, I opened the basement door just for one last glance into the abyss. It was almost sundown by that point and whatever sunlight filtered through the lower windows was essentially useless for anything other than the determination of large shapes. When I didn't see anything I strained my ears and listened for anything

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like the noise I'd heard earlier. Maybe it was the water heater...that had been off and empty for weeks. Maybe it had been the air conditioner... same shit. Everything in the house was off and quiet and were it not for my parents arguing in the driveway, the house would have been dead silent. Then I heard it, the growl, the sound of fur on wood. A black dog the size of mastiff melted in and out of the darkness at the base of the stairs, growling and scrapping it's way towards me. I slammed the door and ran. Later that week we received a furious phone call from the realtor who had taken over our house threatening to call the police if we didn't come collect our dog. My mother explained and reiterated in increasingly less polite terms that it was our not our dog, that we had never had a dog, and that the lady needed to find a hobby other than harass us about imaginary pooches. The woman told her in return that she would call the police and animal control if she ever saw the dog on the property again and that she would take us to court for animal abuse when she did. My mom told her to stick it up her ass to keep the stick company. I didn't tell her what I'd seen in the basement, in fact I've never told anyone until now.

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We moved a lot over the next 10 years or so, eventually everyone headed off in different directions towards colleges, work offers, extended family, and even just the opposite direction of each other. It wasn't until this past year, when my father died, that we all got together again to make to trip to his house to clean up the mess he'd left behind. As my sibling and I stood in his driveway reliving memories and catching up, one of his neighbors approached us and asked what we planned on doing with his dog. My heart ricocheted off my knees but my sibling, who had been in more frequent contact with our dad, ask him to clarify what he'd meant since to the best of her knowledge our father had never owned a dog.
"A big black one" the man insisted "HUGE! Musta been almost 150 pounds!" He said stretching his arms a little for dramatic effect "Come to think of it I don't think I ever really got a good look at it, he never took it for walks or anything, but it was there sure enough."
I told them it must have been a stray he had been feeding and spent the rest of my time there with eyes and ears peeled.

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That was a few months ago, and I've started seeing things. A shape here, a blur there, a misshapen shadow lurking in my peripheral. The air conditioner's been acting up, making these weird growling noises, but no one seems to notice it but me. I probably just notice more because my friends have stopped inviting me out so I've just been going out less. Can't say I miss it though, they've all really begun to piss me off. I can't really deal with people's bullshit, I just don't have the patience.
Like the other day my fuckjingle of an overlord landlord called me up to complain about nothing and to remind me about his no pets policy.
I told him to cram up and keep the stick company; I don't have to deal with this.

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First, I'm drunk.
I just want to start out with that. I'm drunk to a point of near incomprehensibility. If I wasn't drunk, you wouldn't be reading this. Because, if I was sober, I wouldn't tell you them. It's as simple as that. Now, don't think there's some conspiracy here. There's no big government baddy, there's no secret plot about the end of the world. There isn't. There is no reason I wouldn't tell these stories other than the simple fact of 'I don't really want too'. Lucky for you, I'm too drunk to drive, too sober to sleep, and just spacey enough to want to jabber. Lucky you.
Second, these are not my stories. Rather, they're the stories I've witnessed. They're a collection, a history, almost a discography of my home town (A town called Strange), and the people therein. Strange is different than most places. It's small, small enough that you won't find it on a map, usually. It's big enough that you'll find it if you go looking, provided you know the general location of Strange, along with the country, state, and planet.
Strange is not a place you want to go looking for.

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It's not built on an Indian burial ground. It's not haunted (at least, no more than most places). There was no elder witch burned at the stake who cursed the town with her dying breath (though, coincidentally, there are witches and there was stake burning). It is not the site of a cannibalistic, inbred tribe of hillbillies in the mountains. Actually, scratch that last one. It could very well be the home of a tribe of inbred, cannibalistic hillbillies high up in the mountains. Lord knows there's evidence for it.
Rather, you don't want to go looking for it because there's nothing worth looking for in Strange. You'll find a couple gas stations, a Kroger's, several fast food restaurants, a High school, and the topic of our first tale, a rather large collection of farmland. That's about it.
So, let's get started then.

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Strange has a lot of farmland. Imagine a countryside, with a lot of farmland. Now double that. Now add 50% of the original amount to the doubled amount. Now subtract 3, and divide by .22. That's about how much farm land there is in Strange. One in particular, however, was different.
It was corn.
I promise that's important.
The corn farm was owned by a man we all called Farmer Johanson. Farmer Johanson was a plump, hairy man in his late 40's, who constantly wore a stained wife beater and a straw hat. He also spoke with a thick accent. Most people felt uncomfortable around Mr.Johanson, largely in part because of the accent. It was a thick thing, almost thick enough to see. It was one you wouldn't want to hear when you asked a man for directions, it was borderline impossible to understand, and made you shift uncomfortably and wonder if there was inbreeding in his line somewhere (hint: there was).
Coupled with the accent was the smell. With his mouth closed, Farmer Johanson didn't smell pleasant. He had the scent of cow shit, mixed with pig fucking tacked onto him at all times. When he opened his mouth, however, the smell worsened. It was a scent of unwashed teeth, halitosis mixed with rotting meat. It smelled as if he had just feasted on the rotting corpse he had packed with feces. It had a bitter sweetness to it, the soft, warm smell of decay. It's something I have tried hard to forget, and I simply can't.

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The other reasons people felt uncomfortable around Mr.Johanson numbered in the thousands. He was a racist, homophobic sexist who would try and pick up fourteen year olds outside the school until someone escorted him off property. Once, while working at the small market in Strange, he tried to convince me to come to his place.
“Fawsomefuwn, darwin,” he said with a wink, before grabbing his groceries off the counter. There was a delayed reaction while his scent traveled through the air at me. It finally assaulted my nostrils, and I gagged. Partly from the smell, partly from the implications of 'fuwn', partly because I was still an underage bloke. For a homophobe, Johanson had trouble differentiating a guy with long hair and a woman.

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Farmer Johanson made me uncomfortable for different reasons than the above listed. There were rumors of devil worship happening on his property, blood sacrifices, and ritualistic rapes. This, people said, is why his corn grew so well. This, people said, is why it was so delicious. This, people said, is why we tolerate him. Somewhat naively, I believed all the stories about him. But the one that sticks out in my mind most is that of his pet scarecrow.
Crow breath, as we called it, was the worst scarecrow anyone had ever seen. The crows would flock to it in droves, landing on it's arms and hat, pecking at the stains on it's sackcloth tunic. They would feverishly defend Crow breath, fiercely attacking anyone who got to close the damn thing. It became a right of passage to run up and try to tip it's hat off it's head, fending off the crows and desperately trying to reach up the stake to smack it away.
There were rumors about it, too. It would wander around the cornfield at night, people said. You could see it's hunched form painted black against the setting sun, they said, holding it's scythe in one hand, and a dead crow in the other. God help you if it saw you, they said. God have mercy on your soul, they said. It had been brought to life with black magic, an unwanted side effect of the dark spells Farmer Johanson cast on the field.

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The truth is someone just made up the story to stop the kids from trying to whack the damned thing. That's what we told ourselves, anyway. So, every few weeks and only in the light of day, we would try our game again. Many would attempt, none would succeed. The crows would stop anyone who tried.
To my knowledge, I'm the only one that ever managed to do it. At 5 foot nine, I seemed the least likely to. But I had one thing the other kids didn't, one little trick no one ever saw (the other kids would stand far back, to avoid the murder of crows anger, just out of sight of the scarecrow). Crows like me. I don't know why, but it's been that way my entire life. Crows aren't afraid of me, they don't caw at me, or peck at me. Often, they will eat out of my hand. I don't know, nor do I want to know, why. But that's how it is.
It was fall, I remember that. The sun was high, the corn had the scent of dying wheat. The dry smell of underwatered grass, and a similar color. The stalks reached seven feet high, while the small group of us huddled up for a game plan. We laughed at Josh as he tried, and came running back. We giggled when Heds tried, being only 5 feet tall she couldn't reach the hat. It was a grand old time.

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Finally, it was my turn. My friend encouraged me, and Heds looked at me, smiling. I smiled back, scratching the bandages on my wrists. She always made me smile. I was doing it for her, I realized as I took the few steps towards Crow breath. I swallowed, my teenage hormones overwriting the fear I had. If I did this, she would think I'm cool. I knew she would. So I did.
I wish I hadn't, obviously. There are a lot of things I'd go back and redo if I could. A lot of scars I'd remove from myself. A lot of actions I'd take back. But I digress, you didn't come here to read my sad nostalgia for a time long past.
Crow breath hung taller than the corn, maybe by a half a foot, maybe by a foot. He had legs made of sticks, which I always found odd. Why give a scarecrow legs? His joints were tied by fraying old rope. An old, hole filled straw hat tilted low on his head, casting a shadow over his red bandana. Crows sat on his wooden arms, jutting out at eerie angles. Someone had given him elbow joints as well. A stiff breeze blew his forearms to and fro, blowing hay out of the gloves he had for hands.

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The wooden limbs were haphazardly jammed into an old sackcloth bag. The bag itself had seen better days. It was full of tears and frays, lazy patch work had kept it intact for some time, but that time was long gone. Maybe, at some point, the bag was filled with the same hay as the gloves. Now, it was half empty. The bag clung at odd angles, making the damn thing look human. Like someone wearing an ill fitting T-shirt that clings at awkward points.
I could no longer hear my friends. I swallowed the lump in my throat. It was just me, Crow breath, and the murder of crows. They turned to look at me. They tilted their heads and shook, feathers coming loose. None of us made a noise. Their black eyes watched me steadily, refusing to release me from their spell. I closed my eyes, hard. It was just a scarecrow, I told myself. It was nothing but a really bad scarecrow. I stepped forward.

The crows again shifted. None of them attacked me. I could see the foot prints in the ground that Josh had made, ending just short of where I was. There was two more prints from Heds, just in front of me. If I took one more step, I'd surpass them both. I did just that.
I took one after another, closing the distance. 20 feet became 15, which became ten. Still, the crows didn't attack me. Up close, I could see the face of the scarecrow. It was a smaller sack, still beaten. It was less sun stained than the chest, but more rotten. Dampness had taken it's toll under that hat, and the bag was decaying rapidly. Something leaked out the side.
It had eyes, I realized. Two buttons were sewn into the bag, one hung at an interesting angle off the side of the bag, but the other clung extremely tight to the bag. It also had a smile, made out of cross stitches. It was too wide, I thought to myself. Much, much too wide. A part of the stitching had given way to the elements, opening just slightly.
One of the crows pecked at the loose stitch. I had a sudden epiphany, that I was the closest anyone had ever gotten to him. No one could get within fifteen feet of the scarecrow without the wrath of the birds coming full force. No one but me. Fifteen feet became ten, which became eight.

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That's when the smell hit me. It had a bitter sweetness to it, the soft, warm smell of decay. It smelled slightly of bad breath, halitosis mixed with rot. It was a smell I had smelled before. I took a slight step back, refusing to believe my nose. In the back of my mind, something echoed.
'Fawsomefuwn, darwin,'
My breath began to get heavy. The crows stayed quiet, trying to warn me of my next move. I crept closer, reaching up. I'm short, but I've got a hell of a vertical. It would take one jump, one quick flick of the wrist, and it would be over. I took another step closer. The smell became over powering.
I stood directly in front of it. It stared at me. I stared at it. It stared back, it's button eyes and grim grin daring me to do it. Daring me to make the mistake of touching it, of incurring it's wrath. I remembered the story I had been told. May God have mercy. I thought about the slumped form in the dusk. I though about the dead crow it would clutch, of the dull scythe that it car-
I glanced to the ground. There it was, a dull, rusty old scythe. It was covered in bird droppings, with a warped wooden handle and a wicked curve to the blade. It looked cold. It looked mean. It looked like it had been moved recently. I swallowed, hard. It was do or die, I thought. It was the moment I make my decision.
With the gusto of only a teenager, I leaped straight up. With a swift motion, I knocked the straw hat off the scarecrows head. My hand hit the sack with a wet, cold slap. The sound of something solid, but with give. Something

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mushy, for lack of a better word. Mushy and wet. I hit the ground with a puff of dirt. The crows stared at me, seemingly in awe. I had done it. I had knocked the hat off.
There was a rush of adrenaline, a feeling of accomplishment. I turned around, ready to head to the group. Ready for my high fives, my hugs, and the kiss I had been waiting for. I was on top of the world, the one and only, the king of crows! The brave, the fearless! Me! I had done the impossible!
As I began to walk back, my victory became a short lived one. It was just a creaking first. I thought nothing of it. It was a creaking, and a grinding. I stopped. There was the sound of a flutter of feathers. The was the sound of something hitting the ground. I turned around slowly.
He was taller than I remembered. Maybe six feet tall. Without the bend in his joints, he would reach six and a half, easily. But the ropes at his knees held him up right. He stared at me with one button eye. I stared at him, speechless. Filled with fear. He reached up his hand, and set the dangling button back in its place. I saw something in that empty hole, for a brief second, where the button was placed back into. Something white, and blue. Something round.
I couldn't scream. It was like a nightmare. Crow breath just looked at me. Neither of us moved again. Not for an eternity. I looked down at his feet. The scythe still lay there, untouched. It was as if he hadn't noticed it. On his head, where my hand had slapped, there was a liquid dripping out. Something dark and black. I began to pray.

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Then it was over for him. His movement was stilted and tight, the rope joints caused him to waddle slightly. He was approaching me, slowly. His arms bent down at ninety degree angles as he came for me.
Then, all at once, the spell was broken. I screamed, and sprinted back. I could hear the plodding foot steps for a moment behind me, then it was gone. I sprinted back to my friends, screaming. I ran past them, knocking Josh out of my way. I burst out of the cornfield, and into the street. I turned sharply, headed towards my home. My pants had piss in them, I realized. I didn't stop to assess the damage.
Back at home, I finally stopped. I began to catch my breath. I peeled the piss stained jeans from myself, and pitched them in the washer. In tossing them in, I noticed the red on my hand. The liquid that had come from the head of the scarecrow. My vision began to go black, creeping in from the sides. It was slow, but not slow enough for me to put my pants on.
I awoke several hours later in a daze. It was still daylight, maybe 3 o'clock. Officially, the doctors say I passed out from stress. They said I should take it easy, not take school so seriously. My dad had the teachers lighten my work load. My friends assumed it was because I was panicking about Heds spending time with her boyfriend. Heds knew it was because of what I saw.

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I started to not believe what I had seen. Time heals all wounds, they say. I began to accept it was just a culmination of my stresses that had played a trick on me. Eventually, I had gone back to see the scarecrow, with a group of friends. It threw me briefly back into doubt. I swear, when I saw it last, it had a dangling button eye, not two, firmly in their place. And I know I knocked it's hat off, but there it was. Still sitting on it's sack head.
Several years later, the reason for the crows was discovered. A rotting corpse was residing in Crow breath, the crows were trying to get the meat. It explained a lot, really. It explained where the homeless man who disappeared went, it explained the blood I had found on my hand, it explained the smell. It didn't explain why it smelled like Farmer Johanson's breath. It also didn't explain why, all those years ago, when I turned around to get one final look at the scare crow as my friends berated me for being a coward, I saw it lift it's head, and wave to me as I walked away.

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I dont want to be the only anon posting so i'll wait for either another anon to post some pastas or ill let the thread die

Holy shit dude,this is the best thread that has been /x/ for a while.. dont stop... I'm really enjoying your pastas :)

Bump for the story anon!

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I'll post some of the shitty greentexts i have,shithead faggots fucking join leave the fortune telling threads you retarded fucks.