Russian Creepypasta Thread

I got up and looked through the peephole, but nobody was there. I thought it was someone just passing by and got back to the game, but then something scratched at the door, and I heard an indistinct male voice. I thought it was the director, so I put the key in, turned it once and then looked through the peephole again. I said, “Is that you?”, but nobody answered. I turned back the key, and immediately I heard a voice from beyond the door. This time it sounded like a woman, but I still couldn’t understand a thing. It seemed like it was saying something, but not a single syllable made any sense. I swore at them and threatened to call the police (I was bluffing – we had no phones in the office, and the whole thing happened before the age of cell phones). A moment later, the female voice shut up, and I heard a quiet knock in the window. I opened the blinds, and I was stunned. No, I was paralyzed with fear.

My legs buckled, and I sat on the floor. A man (I want to believe it was a man) was hanging on the bars. Everything about him was completely unnatural. It looked like something that had only seen humans in the movies before had made a human suit and put it on. I couldn’t even approximately guess at that thing’s gender. Once it saw me, it started to speak – first, with the same female voice, then it started to alternate with the male one and then it seemed like the sound was coming from different sources, interrupted by some scraping and rustling. Fuck, even its facial expression was absolutely inhuman – it was moving its facial muscles in all possible directions. The creature was pressing its hands and legs at the glass while somehow climbing up at the same time. Maybe it was squeezing the rods with its knees and pushing itself up, I don’t know. Back then, I thought it was flying. I could see the thing very well, and it hung for a pretty long time, perhaps for a minute. All that time I couldn’t do anything – I just sat on my ass and stared at the creature.

About a minute later it finally ended – the whole cacophony died down, the thing turned back abruptly (I swear its head turned all the way around) and froze for a few seconds, staring at something. Then it suddenly jumped down and ran off while screaming something in a new, high-pitched voice. Since I was sitting on the floor, I couldn’t see where it went. All I could do was close the blinds and crawl into the office where I couldn’t see the door or the windows. I sat there and cried like a baby – it had been eight years since the last time I’d cried. Then I stopped and started to shudder all over. I sat on the floor till six in the morning, when my coworker, Artyom, came to replace me. I looked at him through the peephole for about two minutes asking him either to step back or to say something before I opened the door. Finally, I let him in, and although he slapped me on the back of my head, I just laughed hysterically (until I started to cry again). Anyway, when I came home, my parents had no idea what had happened to me – I was pale, I had circles under my eyes, and when I weighed myself, I found out that I had lost fifteen pounds that night. Since then I often have trouble falling asleep at night, and I get nightmares. I never told my friends about it, since they would only laugh at me. I decided to post this here, because even though you won’t believe me anyway – at least, I wouldn’t believe it myself - I really wanted to share my story. Well, that’s all for now, I’m going to try to go to sleep.

Why didn’t I go insane after that night? Thinking logically, I can say that if that thing had wanted to get me, I wouldn’t have been posting in this thread. It seems like that thing saw me only by chance, but then it got distracted by something else and forgot about me. At least, I want to think so.

One more from the godless commies.

The early 80’s. A military outpost in a small northern town surrounded by endless snow-covered flatlands. In the summer, the white nights would start, the snow would thaw, and the flatland would turn into a mossy slough where you couldn’t make a step without a pair of rubber boots. Even tractors could get stuck in it so hard that you had to use two other tractors to get them out – I saw that happen myself. Mosquitoes flew in swarms so thick that they literally covered the sun. I remember that as I went outside in the first summer days, I itched like crazy, and my skin looked like I had eczema or something worse. However, I would quickly get used to that and I’d only lazily wave my hand seeing another little bastard trying to bite me.

But it was the summer, and the thing I want to tell you about happened in the winter, when everything turned into a lifeless white wasteland. Thanks to Wikipedia, I can even tell the precise day – 15 November 1982. I was 5 years old back then. My family lived in a ramshackle barrack on the edge of the outpost. There was no district heating, and we heated our home with black coal its large heap sitting near the house. My father spent the whole days at the service, and my mother worked as a teacher in a local school, so six days a week my parents would leave me home alone for the whole morning. During the winter? I wasn’t allowed to go outside on my own – they were afraid that I’d go away to tundra (it happened to the local kids sometimes) or that predators would turn up nearby (it also happened). As my choirs I had to close the chimney once the coals burned out to keep the heat in the house and to get the fresh warm bread from the bakery delivered to the servicemen’s families and left in small boxes near the houses. I was a calm kid who never sought troubles on his ass, so my parents were not afraid to leave me alone.

That day there was a rough snowstorm. Wind howled in an almost human voice, and snowflakes were covering our windows. I looked through the clearances as the wind pinned smoke from our chimney to the ground. We often had such a weather in our place, and I felt no fear. I knew that there could be a blackout any moment which would also happen quite often. I was just riding a tricycle that my parents had given me the last New Year, played with my toy soldier and threw a ball at the wall to catch it myself – I had as much fun as I could. My mother left our TV on before leaving, so I wouldn’t be lonely. That day both central channels were broadcasting the most important news – the funeral of Secretary General of CPSU Central Committee Leonid Iliytch Brezhnev. The government announced the mourning, but it didn’t concern the military, and my mother had to take part in a school event dedicated to the elderly secretary’s death, thus I was left alone just like always.

At first, I didn’t understand what was on TV instead of usual morning entertainment shows, and I didn’t care. But the broadcast gradually caught my attention. The whole solemnity filled me with a thought that it was something important, tragic and possibly fatal. By that time I already knew Brezhnev – he was “a grandpa from the TV“, a part of my life as usual, as mom’s borsch at Sunday. As I looked at his huge portraits carried by soldiers in the head of the procession, I thought that the grandpa would start reading something on a paper as he always did. But I actually saw him just lying in the coffin, his eyes closed. It seemed like he was just sleeping, but the gloomy orchestra playing Chopin’s March made me think that something terrible had happened. I didn’t know yet what death is, since no one I knew had died yet. That cold day, sitting before a TV-set with a small screen, I encountered death for the first time.

I remember standing on my knees in front of the TV and cried. I felt sorry for Brezhnev who would never again climb the tribune and read his paper, but I was even more sorry for myself and my parents. I understood through an inconceivable childish intuition what the thing that had happened to Brezhnev concerned everyone, and sooner or later I would also lay senseless and motionless/ People would carry my portraits, and this slow unsettling music would play again. One day the same thing would happen to my parents. I was filled with a razorsharp terror of realization of my own mortality. When they started to put the coffin into a grave, I almost got mad with fear. Why did they do that? First, they praised the man and then they put him in the hole and covered him with dirt. It was beyond my comprehension. I was weeping drying my wet cheeks with my hands and the snowstorm outside was echoing my crying.

I don’t remember how my mother reacted to seeing me crying – perhaps, when she came hope, I had already taken hold of myself. Children often overreact to things, but in the same time they can easily forget them. I think I also forgot my grief for the buried secretary and the primal fear I had felt that snowy day. For some time.

It happened the next year, two months after the funeral. After another day – dad went to the caserne, mom made a pilaf – I went to bed. I quickly fell asleep, but in two hours I woke up in tears. I dreamed about seeing the funeral again, but this time I was on the other side of the screen. I walked along with the procession somewhere in the second line. The orchestra played Chaupin, people were silent and the red walls of Kremlin looked like blood. At first, there was nothing to fear, as it usually happens in the dreams, I didn’t feel like it happened to me. But then they started to put the coffin into the grave, and I suddenly appeared right in front of it. The casket wasn’t closed... and Brezhnev was looking right at me. It was a look not of a man, but of some otherworldly creature, maybe, the death itself. As the coffin was being put deep into the grave, the dead man moved his orbs fixing this terrible look on me. My horror reached the peak, and I woke up screaming and weeping. The lights turned on, my mother ran to me and started to calm me down, and I was still shaking, unable to get a hold of myself after that piercing inhuman sight.

My father didn’t come home. At work, he suddenly felt dizziness, sat down on a nearest box, grabbed at his temples and collapsed on the floor. He had cerebral aneurysm. The scariest nightmare of my childhood became reality – I had to come to the real funeral, to see someone close to me in the coffin and to see him taken to the graveyard people carrying his portrait at the procession.

After my father’s death, me and my mother moved to her native Yekaterinburg. Three years later she got married again. My stepfather drunk a lot, but he wasn’t a bad man, and he didn’t abuse me. However, we didn’t become friends. I went to a normal school, played with boys outside, pulled girls by their pigtails, cheated at the tails – in other words had a vivid school life. I got some friends who were really important to me, and I would fight against anyone for them. One of my best friend was the red-haired Seryoga who lived in two houses from me. We would go to school and back together. He was better in school than me, and often helped me then I couldn’t (or didn’t want) to do the homework. His parents were high-ranking officials, so Seryoga oftentimes had some scarce which he would generously share with me.

In the spring when I was finishing the third grade, the familiar dream repeated again. I’ve seen one more time the walls of Kremlin, the solemn faces of the members of the government (most of them had already kicked the bucket by then), shoulder straps and caps, heard the mournful music. And again, I turned out to be near the former ruler’s casket. I was even closer to him than the previous time. Just like before, Brezhnev raised his old eyelids and stared at me with a look of a creature from the undiscovered country. I woke up again shaking and sweating, but this time with no screams. For the rest of the night I was tossing and turning, but couldn’t fall asleep.

The following day Seryoga got hit by a car on his way to the art school...

So it became a tradition – I would see the childhood nightmare every time on the eve of a tragedy with my friends or relatives. Thanks God, it didn’t happen too often: for all years after Seryoga’s death I’d see that dream only three times. The first time a good friend of man died (he got mugged on the street in the lawless nineties. He tried to stand back for himself, and the thugs shot him in the face.) The second time it was my girlfriend (the infamous plane crash near Irkutsk in 2001), the third time it was my mother. That wasn’t unexpected: she had a cirrhosis and ended up in a hospital, but I’ve seen the dream precisely on the eve of her death. It’s impossible to tell what I felt when I woke up knowing that a tragedy was going to happen soon, but had no idea how, where and to whom of my loved ones. Plus, it seems that their deaths were predestined and inevitable, even if I tried to warn everyone. The creature that stared on me had its own ways, inconceivable for a mere mortal.

But the weirdest thing is that each time I would end up closer and closer to the coffin. The night before my mother’s death I stood right on the edge of the grave, in about 20 centimetres from the hole. I think I know what’s going to happen when I’ll into the grave in my dream.

That was my story. To be honest, I can’t find any sense or moral in it. I can only assume that that snowy day in the far north when I was watching the secretary’s funeral, my childish terror before the inevitability of death somehow made a connection between that memory and a supernatural feeling of Grim Reaper standing at the door. So it happened that for me, a harbinger of the approaching tragedy was “personally Leonid Ilyitch“.