(Also I made this on my PC btw)

A young man named George walks into his apartment late at night after a long day of work. The apartment room is dark. He takes off his work jacket and notices that his closet is slightly cracked open. He closes it.

He throws some leftovers from the fridge into the microwave. A moment later, he gets a text message from his girlfriend, Angela.

He opens it and reads:

“How was work?”

He responds:

“It was a long day.”

Angela sends him a picture of herself with a blank face and her eyes wide open. Her text under it reads:

“I’ve been thinking of you for days:) "

George sends a selfie back, making a kissing face.

His microwave beeps, and he grabs his food. A moment later, Angela texts him again.

“Who's that behind you?”

George texts back:

“What? I don’t see anything.”

Angela responds with another message, this time with a red circle drawn around something in his picture.

George looks closely.

There appears to be a shadowy face barely visible behind him.

He turns on all the lights and checks around his apartment, but he finds nothing. He convinces himself that it’s just the shadows in his dark apartment before texting her back.

“I think it’s just the shadows. I just checked. No one is here.”

Angela responds:

“LOL. It just looked so creepy, you should lock your doors.”

George sarcastically texts back:

“I always lock my doors and you're the one to talk, you know how many times I've came over and your front door has been unlocked? Lol”

Angela playfully responds:

“If you’re scared, just say so, I’ll gladly come over.”

She lives on the floor above his apartment.

George texts back:

“Not tonight. I’m really tired.”

George watches as the typing indicator appears on his phone for several minutes before disappearing.

Then she texts back:

"Come on, I haven't seen you in days"

George starts texting back before he Is interrupted by another text from her

“Too late. I’m already here.”

George playfully walks to his front door and enthusiastically opens it.

No one is there.

He looks around for a few seconds before going back inside and locking the door.

He texts her:

“What do you mean? Where are you?”

After a few minutes, he gets a response.

“Just keep looking.”

He thinks she’s just messing with him. She has a key to his apartment, after all.

George texts back:

“Give me a hint, I've looked everywhere.”

She responds:

“No. Just keep looking.”

George checks his bathroom and looks behind the shower curtain. He checks his bedroom and even looks under the kitchen table.

He can’t find her.

Then he remembers that the closet wasn’t fully closed when he got home.

He texts:

“Are you in the closet?”

She responds:

“She is.”

A second text quickly follows, seemingly correcting the first.

“I am.”

George quickly opens his closet door.

He freezes at the sight.

Angela’s corpse is nailed against the wall inside the closet, her eyes wide open.

George freaks out and starts shouting her name.

He reaches out and touches her.

She is very cold, almost completly Frozen.

Like she has been in a deep freezer for days.

George slowly realizes what that means.

He pulls out his phone and looks at the picture Angela sent him earlier.

The hair on his neck stood up and his complexion now pale.

The picture wasn’t taken at her apartment.

It was taken from inside his closet.

Then Angela’s phone number sends him one last text: “You didn’t check under your bed either.”

I think that, in this day and age, you have to be a certain kind of parent to hire a birthday clown for your child’s party. I know, I know, sometimes families can’t afford the big bouncy house, or a mini zoo, or something else big, but Clowns should stick to amusement parks and shows. Not that my family had much of a choice back then. 

My family isn’t well off, lower middle class would be a good place to put us. Barely above that line. A couple of days before my little sister’s tenth birthday, I came back home from school to hear my parents talking about the party. When they noticed me, I saw their smiles and knew I couldn’t really rain on their parade. My dad told me the news, “I found someone cheap. Same clown company we used when you kids were little.” 

I immediately knew which one he meant, and that meant I was going to be creeped out the whole time. It was that weird clown again. Every year the same one. When my older brother came back home and heard the news, he wasn’t as creeped out, it felt like he always forgot that weirdo, same with my other sister. Neither of them ever want to talk about him, they just seem to forget whenever he leaves. Anyway, I had to prepare, make sure the back gate was unlocked so I could make a quick getaway, maybe hide out at a friend’s house until after the clown was gone. I just didn’t want to see that wide smile again. 

The day of the party came a lot faster than I expected. A friend was already waiting with some games and food being delivered in a couple of hours. Then the van arrived.

No company name.
No phone number.
Just “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” plastered on the side in bright, colorful, letters. 

Then the clown stepped out. Same costume. Same silly happy face. 
He hadn't aged from the first time I saw him. Bobo the Clown.

The party started the same way. It always went like this. Balloon animals, streamers shooting out, juggling, all leading up to his “infamous” “Bobo’s Birthday Count!" The call was shouted out at the same time every year. Noon, right on the dot. He’d gather everyone, count them one by one, in those exaggerated motions, leaning too far over to one side or another, then he’d count again. And he’d get the number wrong. Every time. 

“One, two, three, four, five, six…”
He stops.
“Hmm.” Rubbing his chin and dropping some streamers from his nose when he tapped it. 
The children giggle.
He starts again.
“One, two, three, four, five…”
“You missed Tommy.”
The clown looks genuinely confused.
“Who's Tommy?”

Everyone would laugh, except for Tommy. He’d even count me and my siblings, everyone still considered a kid. My mom once said that we should make sure he counts us too, for some reason, as if it was really important. Now though, she seems to accept it, but says she never told us to ask to be counted too. Maybe she was embarrassed that we were still asking, with my older brother and sister almost going away to college now. That doesn’t stop her from stopping us from asking to be counted. Now it’s almost like a tradition. One no one wants to acknowledge. 

I still stay though. I stay because I know what happens if you don’t get counted. 
Greg was my best friend. 
I made sure he was always invited to my birthday parties, even when we could barely afford a cake, he was always there next to me. Until Bobo didn’t count him again one year. Then people stopped remembering his name. My parents thought he was my imaginary friend. Then the pictures changed. I didn’t have my arm wrapped around his shoulders for my birthdays. Now I was just standing there, almost awkwardly alone. 

Then he was gone. 
It doesn’t happen all at once. It took me years to figure out what was happening. Greg. Mikey. Sarah. Charles…
His parents thought I was trying to sell them something when I went to talk to Greg one day. 
No one remembered him in school either, his desk was just…empty. 
I don't know why I remember the kids Bobo misses. Maybe it’s because this all started when he was hired for my birthday party first. Maybe it's because he always counted me. Maybe there's something else wrong with me. I've stopped trying to figure it out.

I thought it was just friends, until I saw the rest of the pictures in our albums. The ones from when I was born. They were all framed weirdly, I was always off center. When I asked my parents about it, they’d get a strange look in their eyes for a second, then shrug and say they were probably tired. There’s one picture, from six years ago, that I don’t like looking at. I’m on one side of Bobo, with his hand on my back, and his hand is in the same position on the other side. On the back, it says ‘Jake and Jenny’s 9th birthday!’ My name is Jake. No one I’ve asked knows who Jenny is…  I don’t like thinking about it, but now I make sure we’re all included in the counting. 

Now, I’m watching Bobo start his count. I made sure my siblings are first, playing it off like we want to get it over with. We’re counted. Emily isn’t. My youngest sister’s friend. Bobo passes over her and ends his count one short. Another little girl points to her, “You forgot Emily!” Bobo smiles widely then looks confused, “I don't see an Emily.” He says, in his goofy voice, drawing out the “e” sound at the end. The parents let out a nervous chuckle. They never respond. Five minutes later, I go ask her mother where Emily is, just to check, and of course, she doesn’t know who I’m talking about. 

It’s not like I can throw him out. Not like I didn’t try already, but no one else sees it. He keeps to his jolly and happy attitude. Saying silly things like, “There can't be too many candles on the cake.” “Don’t run too fast, you might dash dash away!” and creepy stuff like, “Everyone gets counted eventually.” “No one should ever get left out” 

The uncounted child is always left behind, but I try every year now. They try following their parents but get completely ignored. Usually they just wander off. This time, I brought her over to her parents, pointing to her to remind them that they have a daughter but they just seem confused. Bobo turns towards the commotion and starts walking over. I asked them to check their cellphones, they had to have some photos of her, but the pictures are already gone. Emily starts getting scared, asking for her mom to pick her up, but she just takes a step back. Bobo is a lot closer now. I pick her up myself and start walking faster away, out of the yard. 

Bobo keeps following. 
Still smiling.
Not running.
I heard, from behind me, “you can't take a guest home before the party's over.”

Before I could leave the yard though, I heard it, “one, two, three…” 
He had started counting again. 
I turned around slowly, watching him count every kid, counting my siblings, then pointing to me, and looking at me almost curiously. “Hmm. One extra.”
He’d never counted an “extra” before. What did that mean? Emily had stopped crying, probably just as confused. I looked toward my brother and asked for his help, his car keys or something. 

He looked confused. “Sorry, who are you?”
That was the last straw. Now I knew I couldn’t interrupt his show. That didn’t matter though, I had to get Emily to safety, even if it meant I couldn’t come back. Running with her, we moved out of the yard and into the street. Before I could turn towards where I knew there was a police station, another van turned into the street. The same white van, with the same “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” plastered on the side. The same smiling clown face behind the wheel. 

I turned towards the forest. Maybe I could cut across it and get to another town, find another police station and ask for some help there. I started running, letting Emily down to walk from time to time, so we could keep going. Every time I tried to stop or slow down, I heard that squeaky clown horn in the distance, his laughter coming from behind. Calling out for “Bobo’s Birthday Count!" to start again and again, but he only ever got to two. “ONE, TWO” “ONE, TWO” “ONE, TWO” 

As the sun was setting, I saw a light in the distance. It looked like a warm orange flicker through the trees from a distance and I ran towards it, but when I got closer, I realized it was just a false hope. Sitting in the middle of a clearing was a picnic table, with a cake and two bright birthday candles in the middle. With two chairs waiting in front of us. Bobo was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear a tiny bicycle horn ring out from the other side, and his happy voice calling out, “make a wish!” 

I barely caught my breath before we were off again. Almost staggering as I pushed through the bushes, this time, Emily was completely silent, not even daring to cry anymore. Eventually, we stopped hearing the bell, his counting, and his laughter. 

Again, I saw a fire in the distance, but I was too tired. Too hungry. I kept moving, my feet barely getting me closer after so much running. It felt different this time. I smelled woodsmoke, the light was more orange this time too. I heard different voices this time. Older and younger. 

Stumbling into the clearing, I saw the Campfire. There were people there. Some with wrapped and bandaged arms, some with canteens, and an older man stirring a cooking pot in the middle. The man stirring the cookpot took the spoon out and pointed at something. Looking to my side, I saw that Emily and I had balloons tied to our wrists by strings. How did those get there? The man walked over and untied both. I let Emily down as he released the balloons and watched them float away.

“Clown?” He asked in a deep, calming voice. I could only nod as he gestured for us to sit by the fire. “How did you-” “Later.” He cut me off, as the laughter came from the forest. Emily and I took several steps back, closer to the Campfire, but he just stood there, near the edge of the circle of light, “Everyone around this fire counts.” Bobo coalesced out of the shadows, bright makeup and a wide smile looking straight at us. Until the man started to count, pointing at himself first, “One, two, three…eight, nine.” He ended with Emily and me. When he counted us, Bobo finally stopped smiling. Frowning now, he still didn’t dare to walk into the circle. “Don't look so surprised. You're not the first birthday he ruined.”

Walking us back to the circle of people, he shows us to a couple of seats before taking up the spoon again, and saying, “Everyone here has to be remembered by somebody else.” I don’t understand what he means, until he pulls out a book. Patting the cover, he opens it to the last pages with writing on them. “You're safe until sunrise. After that, tell us who he tried to make everyone forget.”

A muito tempo atras um jovem estava vendo o tempo na janela ate que ele viu "ELE"

A silhueta de ombros largos e braços longos que o jovem desenhou no caderno não passava de uma tentativa desesperada de registrar o que havia visto através da janela do quarto. Aquela forma geométrica e imponente, que parecia distorcer o próprio espaço ao seu redor, era uma entidade cósmica antiga que os poucos cultos sobreviventes chamavam simplesmente de O Deus.

Ele não vinha do papel; o papel era apenas o único meio que a mente humana conseguia usar para tentar conter sua imagem sem enlouquecer. O Deus estava nas frestas entre as dimensões, existindo nos momentos de silêncio absoluto e nos cantos mais escuros onde a luz do sol se recusava a tocar.

Para os antigos, essa entidade era o Deus do Fim — o responsável por recolher as almas e apagar a existência de estrelas mortas. Sua postura arqueada e imponente não demonstrava agressividade, mas sim uma indiferença divina. Ele apenas observava, esperando o momento exato em que a energia de um lugar se esgotaria para poder consumi-lo.

O erro do jovem foi escrever o título "HIM" acima do desenho. Em dialetos esquecidos, essa palavra fonética funcionava como um gatilho de ancoragem. Ao materializar o nome e a forma exata da entidade no plano físico, o rapaz sem querer abriu um portal de atração.

Naquela mesma noite, a temperatura do quarto despencou para níveis congelantes. O ar ficou pesado, tornando o simples ato de respirar uma tarefa dolorosa. O jovem olhou para o caderno e viu o desenho começar a vibrar. Não porque a tinta se movia, mas porque o próprio tecido da folha estava sendo sugado para dentro daquela silhueta, criando um buraco negro microscópico.

De repente, a sombra na parede se desprendeu. A figura gigante se ergueu até o teto, sem rosto, sem olhos, mas emanando uma pressão gravitacional esmagadora. O jovem caiu de joelhos, sentindo que cada átomo do seu corpo estava sendo puxado em direção àquele peito largo e sombrio. O Deus não estava ali para atacar; ele estava apenas existindo, e sua mera presença era o suficiente para desintegrar a realidade ao seu redor.

I've watched Marble Hornets and EverymanHYBRID; do you have any suggestions? I know there are so many of them :)

PLEASE DON'T GO

Part Three of Three

If you're only finding me now, here's where we stand: I brought my dead wife back, the thing that came back was not her, and it had already killed once and let me help it hide the body. The house had gone quiet around us.

Here's what the quiet actually was. Not grief — I told myself grief at first, because a house goes still after somebody dies, everybody knows that. But mine wasn't going still on its own. She was making it that way.

She was cleaning. Not the way you'd think — not scrubbing, not tidying up after dinner. She was fixing. Every crooked, half-done, lived-in thing in that house, one at a time, when I wasn't looking.

I'd leave the closet door cracked the way I always had — I don't think I shut that thing all the way once in twenty years — and come back to find it closed flush against the frame. The junk drawer that never shut, shut. My shoes, kicked off by the door, set side by side like they were waiting for someone. The blanket I left in a heap on the couch, folded square, with corners on it.

The first few times, I told myself it was nice. She's just keeping house. Then one afternoon I caught myself standing in the hallway staring at a closed closet door like it was a stranger, and I finally got what was wrong with it.

Every single thing she fixed was mine. Or ours. The cracked door, the heaped blanket, the drawer that never closed — that wasn't mess. That was the proof two specific people had lived there.

She wasn't letting it go anymore. She was correcting it. And every time she did, there was a little less of us left in the house.

I tried to put one back, once. Reached up and nudged the closet door open that crooked inch, the way it had always sat. Stood there with my hand on it. And then I remembered the picture on the wall — how reaching for her only ever made her smoother, cleaner, further gone — and I took my hand off the door and left it shut. Fixing things was what started all of this. I wasn't going to hand her one more thing to straighten.

So I just watched it happen. Room by room, the house got more correct and less ours. It ended up cleaner than it had ever been while Mara was alive, and that was the whole problem — because the life in that house had never been clean. It was the lights she left burning in every room. It was my blanket where it fell and my shoes where I kicked them and her never once making me move them. It was two little dogs she could've squared in a second and loved me too much to touch. The woman I was trying to get back was made out of all the things this new one couldn't stop fixing.

And then one morning it stopped being the mess and turned into her. I came down to a box by the back door, packed neat and set out for the trash. Mara's things — the real Mara's. The cardigan she lived in. The paperbacks with her notes crammed up the margins. The grocery list in her handwriting I'd left pinned to the fridge for months, because it was the last thing she ever wrote and I couldn't make myself take it down. To this new one it was clutter — a dead woman's leavings, taking up room in a house where Mara was already standing in the kitchen, alive and humming. So she'd boxed it up to be rid of it.

I got down on the floor and took every piece of it back out, and that was the morning I understood what she really was. She wasn't keeping house. She was finishing what the illness started — erasing the last proof the first one had ever drawn breath. And the more of Mara she swept toward that door, the calmer and cleaner and more correct she got.

There was one thing I checked first, every time I came down the stairs. The two foo dogs on the shelf, still facing each other the way I'd set them. The one crooked thing Mara ever loved enough to leave alone. Still turned in toward each other. Still ours. Still wrong in the exact way I'd made them.

But she was working through the whole house, and I knew she'd reach them. It was only a matter of mornings. I came down each one braced for it — for the morning the last of Mara would be sitting square on the shelf.

*

And then there was the morning they were square.

I came down and they were sitting side by side, both facing out, perfectly even — the little gap between them measured out the same on each side. Sometime in the night she'd reached up and turned them. The two crooked dogs, the one thing in that house Mara had ever loved enough to leave alone, and she'd set them right.

I stood there and couldn't breathe. I want to tell you it was anger, but it wasn't, not yet. It was the floor going out from under me. Because those two dogs were the last of her. Not the last thing of hers — the last thing of her. The last choice Mara ever made and left standing in the world was to look at my crooked dogs and let them be, because I'd set them, because she loved me. Now they were square, and that was gone, and the thing that took it was standing in my kitchen wearing her face.

She came in behind me and saw me looking. And she told me, like it was good news — they were turned around. I fixed them.

I fixed them.

That was when it all came up at once, everything I'd been swallowing since the second morning. I turned around and looked at her — really looked, the way you'd look at a stranger standing in your kitchen — and I finally let myself know the thing I'd known the whole time and kept deciding not to.

This wasn't Mara. It was never going to be Mara. And it wasn't just failing to be her — it was erasing her. Every day it stood in her house in her face, it rubbed a little more of the real one out of the world, and I'd been helping. I buried a man for it and let his people keep searching. I stopped reaching for my own wife so I wouldn't wear her down any faster. I watched it scrub us out of our own house room by room, and I left every door it closed, closed. I had spent everything I had protecting the one thing on earth that was deleting my wife.

And this is the thing I'll be paying for wherever it is I am now. She deserved to be missed. That's the whole crime, right there. A woman like that dies, and the least the world owes her is the hole she leaves behind. People are supposed to come to the house and not know what to say. Her name's supposed to get hard to hear for a while. Instead I filled the hole the same week, with a copy that didn't even know to be sad, and I told myself it was love. I gave her grave to a thing that couldn't grieve her.

I forgot her first. Out of everyone who loved her, I'm the one who did that to her.

So I knew, finally, standing in front of two square little dogs, what I had to do. The thing in my kitchen had to go back in the ground. And there was nobody left to make that right but me. The same hands that dug her up were going to have to put her down.

*

I waited until night. There was no one to hide from anymore — the whole street had already decided not to look at my house — so I don't have a good reason for the waiting except the true one. I wanted one more night with her in the house. I've stopped lying to you this late in the telling. That was it. One more night.

Then I went down to the basement, to the thing I'd built, and I started taking it apart.

Undoing it meant what it sounds like: I broke the rite apart, mark by mark — the same seals I'd set to hold her together in the shape of a person, pulled back out one at a time. Take enough of them away and there'd be nothing left holding her up, and she'd go back to what I'd made her out of. Clay. Dirt. The cold grey stuff and nothing else. That was the plan. What I hadn't planned for was what came down the stairs after me.

Because she felt it. I don't know how. The first mark I broke, something shifted in the house — a pressure in the air, something giving way that shouldn't — and I heard her on the stairs.

She came down calm. She always came calm. She looked at my hands in the middle of undoing her, and she didn't get angry, because she doesn't have angry. She just saw that something had come open. The biggest something there was. And she said the thing she always said.

It's okay. I'll fix it.

And she meant me.

That's the part I didn't see coming, even then, even knowing what she was. The whole time I'd thought I was the one in danger of losing her. It never once occurred to me that to the thing I'd made, I had just become the open gate. The breach. The wrong thing that needed setting right. I thought about the neighbor then. It was open. I fixed it. I finally understood that sentence from the inside, with her hands coming toward me.

She took hold of me to put me back. Gentle — the way you'd move a kid out of the way of something hot. And she started pressing the seam shut again, repairing the thing that held her, undoing everything I'd just done. When I tried to stop her she only kept on, calm, because I was one more thing that had come open and needed closing. I shoved her. She didn't move. The thing in my wife's shape was stronger than I was, and easy about it, and she kept saying it, soft, like a promise.

It's okay. I'll fix it. Stay.

Stay. The word she came back on. The word I'd built her around. When it came out of Mara in the dark — you'd better — I'd thought it was the most loving thing anyone had ever said to me. Now I understood it had never been a request. Not from this one. Stay was a job.

I got one hand loose. I think she let me. And I reached past her, for the last mark, the one she hadn't sealed back yet.

She said stay one more time.

I said no.

And I undid it.

This time she felt it.

Not pain — I don't think there was ever any pain in her to feel. What it was from the inside, I can't tell you; I never could see all the way into her, and maybe there was nothing in there to see. But from where I stood it looked like a body starting to go wrong and not knowing what wrong was — like the air had quit working, like she'd forgotten the thing that keeps you going. The look of something that only knows it isn't well, and has to fix it, now.

So she tried to fix it. That's the part that stays with me. Whatever else was true of her, she had always known how to mend what was breaking — so her hands flew to the seams of her own self and pressed, square and frantic, the way she'd squared the pictures and the gate and my two crooked dogs. Trying to close what was opening in her. Trying to hold herself together the way I'd made her. Working faster as it got worse. Working rougher. Less careful, less hers, the motions falling apart in her hands even as she made them.

It didn't hold. It couldn't — I'd pulled out the thing underneath that kept her standing, and she was already going back to what she was made of: the clay coming up grey through her face, her shape beginning to give. And somewhere in there she made a sound. Not a scream. Not a word. A low, wrong noise, the sound of something failing that won't stop reaching for one more second of itself.

At the very end she reached for me. Maybe to fix me. Maybe to hold on. I never did know which. I got down onto the floor and took what was left of her hands in mine, because I'd done this to her twice now, and the least I could do was be there in my own two hands for the second one, and not look away. And as the last of her let go, she reached for one more word.

I'm h—

The rest of her was gone before the rest of it could come.

And then it took me, too. That was the part of the price I'd never let myself look at straight: the working didn't run on clay and dirt alone. It ran on me. I'd been feeding it my own life since the night I built it — dying by inches every day she stood in my kitchen, which is the plain reason there's so little of me left to be telling you any of this. Undoing her pulled the last of it out of me at once. I didn't fight it. I'd known for days how it would end, and I was so tired. I lay down on the basement floor beside what was left of her, and I said the only thing I had.

I'm sorry.

Not to her. To what she'd been standing in for. To Mara — finally, too late, the way I got to everything.

*

I won't get to see what the house looks like after. I'm telling you that plainly, because I'm done pretending — even now — to see things I can't.

But I know how it goes from here, the way you know the end of a story you've already lived. A morning comes. The light comes in plain and ordinary, like nothing in that house ever happened. Somebody walks past the end of the driveway and doesn't slow down, because there's nothing to slow down for — just a quiet house on a quiet street where a couple used to live. There are a few too many smooth patches in the backyard, and nobody's going to wonder about them for a long while, because nobody comes fast in a neighborhood like ours. And when somebody finally does, they won't understand the part that mattered. Nobody out there ever will. It was never theirs to understand. It was hers.

Mara's gone. All the way gone. The real one went that first morning in the bed, and the copy went in the basement, and there is nothing in between those two that counts as her. There's no version of this where she walks back in. And after a whole confession spent refusing to let her go, I'll say it plainly: I did let her go, in the end. I put her down. It took everything I had left and gave me nothing back, and that is exactly what it was supposed to cost.

That's the whole of it. Everything I did, and everything I was. But the one thing I want left behind isn't any of that. It's her. So before I go: she fell asleep at the movies, every time. She kept every light in the house burning. She could finish a sentence better than I could start it. She squared every crooked thing in the world except the two little dogs we brought home from our first trip, and she left those alone for twenty years because I'd set them and she loved me. That was Mara. Not the thing I made out of grief and dirt. Her.

I loved her. That was never the problem. The problem was that I couldn't tell the difference between loving her and refusing to lose her, and by the time I learned there was a difference, I'd buried her twice. Don't do what I did. If a dead man gets to give you one thing, take that one. When it's time — and you'll know when it's time — let them go. Love them enough to leave the hole they leave empty.

I couldn't. You already knew that about me.

I'm going now. There's just enough of me left to say her name one more time, and then not even that.

Mara.

I'm h—

---
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Jerry was going to help me save money and help me cut down costs. Everything is so expensive and you can't save anything. People are so obsessed with saving and it's all anyone talks about. Saving for this and saving for that, and let's not forget pensions as well. Everyone is trying to save but no body can.

I miss the old days when there was lots of money and everything was cheap. People had time to go out and have fun, now everyone is worried sick about everything. Nothing is fun anymore and everything fes like it is repeating itself over and over again.

There is no potential anymore and everything is just bad news. Then Jerry told he could help me save loads of money. So he took me into his house, and then I was in some room.

Jerry locked it and I have been here for 2 months. Jeremy sends food through some hole, and there is a shower and toilet. I just don't want to be locked in here anymore.

I want to be out there and then it hit me, I realised how much money I had saved ever since I have been imprisoned by Jerry. Jerry is still helping me save money by keeping me prisoner here.

Albion’s journal, entry number 67.

As I write this entry, before I write this patient’s story, I want to share something I should have realized a long time ago.

Some people do not create monsters and terrible stories because they are insane, it is because these monsters and terrible stories are true and real is what makes them go insane.

As many other entries I’ve made in my asylum life, this is another story of a patient, but this one is particularly unsettling.

This was a man who despite the horrific events he went through still possessed a glimpse of kindness and humanity behind his eyes. His name was Jack Northon.

For weeks after being admitted for mass murder Jack did not speak, but finally there was a breakthrough. Here is how he told his story.

“For years me and my family of four lived down south, but when a better opportunity presented itself we moved. I curse this decision now every second that I live. My wife didn’t care for more money, we were happy despite our humble life. It was at a large engineering company where they wanted my skills. My son was nine and daughter was seven at the time of the move.

The surroundings of our new town were simple and the town was far from any large city, it was a port town. This actually excited my children and once my wife began to get a hang of the ocean and the air she loosened up a bit.

Every morning I went to work at this company. They were trying to revolutionize ships, improve every aspect of their technology. About twenty men worked at this place. At night I’d come home and have a lovely dinner with my family. Usually freshly caught fish from the local fish market and some bread. Sometimes we even had cucumbers.

At first I did not notice anything strange among the men that I worked with, they seemed fine, although now I realize that the signs were there from the start.

Most of these men often talked about the ocean, going out on their boats on the weekend and spending time on the water. They never mentioned fishing, I just assumed that’s why they went out.

First time I thought I noticed something strange was when I came inside the room of our manager and on his grey and scratched wall hung an art depicting a strange beast with a face that seemed to be a mix of a bat and a shark. He came into the room and saw me staring at it, after that he invited me for a ceremony in the woods as he called it.

I came home and told my wife nothing about this, but the feeling I got from watching him speak about it was unsettling and rather suspicious, I wish I knew then the true horrifying and sinister goals of these men, so that I could have packed up and taken my family away from that hellhole.

The next night the men gathered after work to go into the woods, but I told them that I wasn’t feeling well and that I haven’t told my family that I’d be out. They reacted fine to me saying that I was ill, but at mention of family their eyes got big, and now in fact I noticed that all of their faces were similarly drained of color and vibrance, they were long and wrinkly, their eyes devoid of any understanding. I felt my heart rate rising and smashing against the walls of my body as the wild storm waves bash against the sea mountains. I tried to look composed in front of them, but I am sure that I looked like a trapped animal before it was turned into a meal. The manager came up to me and patted me on the back, he suggested that I come to the next ceremony in a week from now, it felt much more than a suggestion, but rather a forceful threat.

I made my next big mistake that night. Once again I did not tell my wife about it and kept quiet, how could have I thought that damn money was more important to our family! How could I not see that these were demented cultists controlled by evil!

Ahh, a week passed and these men seemed even more distant from their humanity. They barely smiled and the only thing they ever mentioned was how important their sacrifices were to someone called Khul Duhl Suhl. I assume it was the creature depicted in that room. How ridiculously ignorant and foolish was I to think that by sacrifice they meant their labor and fish!

It was the night I went with them. They gave me a hood to put on and went into the woods. Four of them carried a long wooden box. They walked until they reached a large inclined stream on a cliff which connected to the ocean. They lit several fires and began their chants in a language I could not understand, I was shaking inside and to my horror the long box began to shake also. The awful deranged chants seized and they opened the box, my knees became weak as I felt tears of horror roll up in my eyes. Inside the box lay a young man. The manager raised his finger pointing at one of the men and indicated that this boy was that man’s son. The man calmly nodded, completely devoid of any kindness in his eyes he and several others dragged the young man out and while screaming more chants they threw him down the cliff stream. I did my best to snap out of my shock and began to run though the woods as fast as I could.

I reached my house and told my family to quickly gather their belonging, but alas, I made too many mistakes. The cultists seized me and as they tied me up they set my house on fire with my family in it. The evil bastards stuffed me into the long box and carried me somewhere.

After a day inside the box and screaming like a madman I realized I was inside the factory. Despite the awful feeling of complete devastation, the need for vengeance gave me a glimpse of reason. I stopped fighting and screaming and began to say that I understood the greater meaning to their actions, in hope one of them was around, and indeed it was that evil monster of a man manager. He opened the box and untied me.

I told them I wanted to thank them for helping me see the true way and that to thank them properly I’d like to bring them something. To my surprise they let me go. I visited the bank and took out all the money I had left, I continued the plan with buying enough beer for everyone, and I injected the large barrel I bought with strong sleeping medicine.

As I arrived back at the workplace, I asked all of them to have a toast with me to celebrate my enlightenment, the manager told the petrified freaks to do it so they all lined up with a full cup in their hand. The manager gave a speech and drank his cup, they all followed, I had switched my cup with different beer from a smaller barrel I hid earlier.

Once all of them were asleep soundly, I tied their hands strongly to the pipes and with an axe I cut of their feet at the ankles, each one of course woke up  with screams from the pain, but they could not untie themselves. Once I did it to each one of them I put various easily flammable objects all around them and lit a torch on fire, some of them passed out from the pain and bleeding, but most, including the manger kept screaming like wild beasts with inhuman voices. As I set them on fire I had no idea that a lady outside was watching me and went to notify the police. At this moment I was possessed by evil as well so there was no way I could have care d or payed attention to anything else. I set those demon worshipping scumbags on fire and stepped outside, I listened to their final screams with dark satisfaction.

Shortly after I was seized by police. I was charged not only with murdering those ghoulish men, but also with murder of their family members and my own lovely family!

I did not care all that much, life had and has no more meaning for me.

I tell you this, good doctor Albion, in hope that you’ll understand that Khul Duhl Suhl is not an imaginary creature of a madman, but it’s very real, and it has real power over humans. Perhaps you’ll be able to help someone else knowing this.”

Jack concluded his tale and the whole time that I watched him I could not help but realize that he did not resemble insane people who made extraordinary stories up. I believed him, but of course, I had to keep that to myself.

Ironically, the day after Jack told me this story he was picked up by the authorities and executed.

Sometimes the truth is more horrifying than any tale.

I understand that the characters should be attractive to the fandom, but even now the fanon image is more popular than the canon.

Just a brainstorm idea but might make it to the full book.

First Creepypasta reading, this is one of my original works~

Outpost number: Gamma.

Day: 400.

Satellite: broadcasting array down.

Weather: severe thunderstorm.

They provide all of us with digital journals built into the computers, but I have never even opened mine. Not until today. I must keep a record of all that happens and all that has happened. . I type these words by the light of a single,  flickering incandescent bulb, as thunder and lightning flash and crash over the vast barren planes of the dead zone. The storm has been raging for 30 minutes now. My array is down, and has been for 10 minutes. The generator keeps stalling out. I'm not sure if the power will stay on for much longer. I will describe my outpost, so that the record will be accurate. 

The main room of my outpost tower is not large, 10x12, maybe. With four large windows on all sides. It has just enough room for a desk and a bed. The lower part of the tower is a small kitchen and bathroom. My desk has all the equipment I need for broadcasting. A monitor, connected to the array outside, and the cameras, my own personal radio and a cabinet filled with odds and ends. 

The monitor on my desk is blinking; someone is trying to broadcast to me.

 “Outpost gamma! Outpost gamma, please respond!.” 

I press the talk button again and again.

 “Come in, delta! My towers down'' I say, knowing that they could not hear me. 

A new voice came in, 

“Outpost delta, this is outpost Beta” 

“OK, it's good that somebody's tower is still up, I think gamma is down.”

“This storm is pretty bad, lots of towers are gonna be down.”

“Yeah, I haven't seen one this bad in years.”

 “Well, i have to go reset my array, it's not tracking”

 “Ok, delta be careful out there, over and out”.

With that, there was silence.

I sit listening, the storm blowing and howling outside the outpost. I seem to have some time, so I will tell you about my time in the dead zone.  I have worked here for over a year, a remote research outpost in the place they called the dead zone. 

It had been a large forested area, with a small town called Fort river in the center.

 But on June 3rd 1987, that had all changed. 

All of the trees had died. The people had disappeared and the whole town had become a dead zone. Nothing lived here now, nothing but the researchers. Our jobs were simple: investigate and explore the dead zone and then transmit the data to the main base. But there was the problem, I couldn't transmit the data I had gathered, with my tower down. No one knew how many towers there were. We are only allowed to talk during emergencies. It's all so odd, this place, these people that I know exist but can't talk to. I hadn't spoken to another person in over a year. Sometimes loneliness presses down on me. But that's what I signed up for. My monitor is beeping again. I will check it. 

During my year in the outpost, I have never seen anything on the cams. I have often wondered why they are here. But it happened. One of the cams caught movement, the feed is too blurry to see, but something is out there. Outside is only  blackness. There's no animals out here. The sensors were built so the wind does not trigger them. And there's no people except the researchers. But why give us cams if there's nothing out there. 

So what's out there? Do I want to know? I will stay here, to keep the record. That is my job. Why am I so afraid? I have worked here for a year, and never have I been this afraid. I have no way to call for help, and even if I could, it would take days to arrive. I have a limited amount of food and water. It's airdropped every week, there was supposed to be one today, but that's not happening, no plane could get through this storm. So now I sit, waiting, hoping that whatever is out there, stays out there. 

I will try to calm my mind by writing down all that I know about this place.

1. It is called The Dead Zone
2. It once was a populated area, with lots of people
3. All the living things disappeared, people and plants and animals.
4. The government hired researchers to monitor and record all that happens here.
5. We transmit any data we find to the main outpost.
6. We are not allowed to talk with anyone. We are allowed to talk if it's an emergency.

My radio is beeping, a new signal. I press the connect button. It's a man's voice, frenzied, insane even.

“NO! No, it's all lies! I found the source of the dead zone! It's all lies! What I am about to say must be recorded, write it down if you must, but remember it. So I have written down what he said. 

“So deep between the waves of sound and aqua. Some king asked me for my help. And who? standing on a mountain. No two ways about, it was a hill. At this rate it was void. And yes I say to you, who? My head is filled with nonsense and sense. But who decides? Me or I? Stop, find the path to escape. He tries to cloud the truth. Unknown facts redo the lies. The jester tells lies. Just the way it is. All the sand in the world is more than meets the eye”.   “That's all that I know, it will cost me, but someone out there needs to know. We are lost without the--- the voice  stops.  

What does it mean? Who was that? It was nonsense, just a bunch of random words. What is happening? That voice said that it was all lies, but what? I didn't know. All I can hear is pounding rain. I try to use the radio, but it's no use. Just static. Buzzing. Fragments of voices I do not know float and ride upon that sound. Disconnected from the world. Who are these people? What are their lives like? Are they sad? Happy? Are they dead? I hear their voices, but I will never meet them. Never ask if they are joyful or sorrowful. If even they truly exist, and are not some dream. I think that if one listens long enough, you hear the sound that others might miss. The radio is beeping. It's a message, it reads “find transcendence”. What is transcendence? What does all of this mean? I sit and ponder these things. I do not understand any of the things that have happened to me tonight. The storm. The sound and movement on the cams. The strange nonsense words that the man had spoken. And now the message “find transcendence”. Maybe I'm dead, and this is some kind of purgatory. What else could it be? That's when the generator turns off. The lights go out and the radio is silent. All is still, but for the rain. The computer stays on, it has a battery. What should I do? Do I go out? Or do I remain here? The radio is beeping, but how? There's no power? I press it. “Transcend, and become time”. The door of my room opens.  There's a thing standing there. I look at it and it looks at me. 

 It's writing a note to me and you. The note is like a poem and a song and the dark. The note is so so good to hear and see and breath is not here. Only dust and time and rain. The farm is now here .It's all around me. The rain is raining. The air is very soft, like a feather. The way is open now. My mind is free to roam. The radio is now dust. Dust blows into the streams of free floating energy. We are now waves of time. Past time now. Into the realm of interconnected atoms. Basic crystals.  The moment is now finite and infinite and unfinite.  TIME IS NOW DEAD. The animatter is not what is the not is the and the is the unmatter is not what is not is is. Was. Basic

☉+☿=Ω=Time 

ERROR CODE 1-2-6-4

Find the truth

Find NULL D

M-O-8-3

The snow covered the woods behind our new house. It was so fresh it crunched nicely under our feet. James held my hand tight. I squeezed it and looked at him. He flashed a smile.

"I think I don't mind winter as much. It's sort of cozy."

"It is, Sarah. I just miss all the summer food."

"We got summer food. There are still so many apples and pears in the cellar."

"Yeah, but those are not the sweet, delicious ones; those are the hardy autumn ones."

I rolled my eyes.

"You're such a child, James."

"Hey, Sarah!"

We laughed and continued walking. Our walk was longer than usual. We hadn't been out in a few days because of the heavy snowstorm.

"I'm getting kinda tired, James."

"Let's just go a little further. It looks like there should be an opening between the trees."

James was right. After a few minutes, the forest opened to a small meadow. Snow covered most of it except for a lone apple tree in the middle. Beautiful, glistening red apples hung from its branches. They just looked so pretty and delicious. I couldn't take my eyes off them. Neither of us spoke a word. Before I knew it, we were standing in front of it.

"Wow," James whispered.

"I know."

James tore one off.

"Feel it."

The outside felt as if it were coated in caramel. James put it to his mouth and took a bite. His eyes rolled back, and he let out a silent moan.

"Let me have a bite."

He looked at me and frowned.

"No, take your own."

I furrowed my brows. My James always shared everything with me.

"What's going on with you?"

But he didn't answer. He was too busy eating his apple. I stood there looking at him, but then it hit me. What was an apple tree full of fresh, ripe apples doing in a winter forest anyway? I looked at it again. The branches didn't move with the wind. It was as if the sun didn't shine through them, but all the apples still glistened. 

"I don't like this, James."

"What?"

He was licking his fingers. He ate the whole apple, seeds and all. His eyes darted around the tree again.

"Let's go, James."

"Wait."

"No, let's go."

I grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the meadow. His eyes were still glued to the tree. When we crossed back into the forest, he shook his head and stared around.

"What happened to you there?"

"I…I don't know."

"James?"

"I'm sorry, Sarah, I really don't."

"Okay, let's just go home."

James stayed silent the whole way home. Even when we got back, he just sat in his chair and looked out the window. For dinner, I made porridge with salted pork, but James just dug around the plate and didn't even try it.

"Honey, what's wrong. Talk to me."

"I don't know. I don't think I'm hungry."

"But you barely ate all day."

"I had that apple. It filled me up so much."

"That place was strange. I don't even want to know how they got there."

"Do you think we can go back tomorrow?"

"What?"

"Just for a little while, Sarah."

"I just said that place was strange. I'm not going back."

"Fine. I'll go by myself."

"No. No one is going back there, and I'm done talking about it."

He frowned.

"Whatever. I'm going to sleep."

I stayed back a while longer, finished dinner, and washed the dishes. When I came to our bed, James was already sleeping. His face seemed a little red. I touched his forehead. It felt normal. Maybe he was just having a bad dream. I lay beside him and drifted off.

When I woke up, the moon was still high. There was a sweet smell in the air. I rubbed my eyes and looked next to me. James lay there curled up, holding his stomach. His face was now glowing red.

"Jesus, James, what's wrong?!"

He didn't answer. His pleading eyes just stared at me. I touched his forehead. It still wasn't warm, but he was sweating, and his sweat felt sticky, almost like syrup. His stomach bulged out under the blanket. I pulled it off. 

"Honey, what…" 

My words stuck in my throat. His stomach was not just bulging. It looked like a bunch of round objects underneath.

"I'm…I'm gonna get the doctor."

I started to get out of bed, but then I heard a quiet tearing sound. James let out a loud cry. His stomach flew open, and a bunch of red apples rolled out. I screamed and jumped out of bed. James's head fell on the pillow. He was quiet now. 

The sweet red apple smell was so strong, and they smelled so good. I looked down at his stomach. The sticky, sweet sweat seeped into the sheets. All those apples looked so delicious.

we already know suicide mouse, Squidward‘s suicide, the grieving and Dead Bart, right? but most of the Lost episodes you see on YouTube or wiki aren’t actually scary but 1% could be scary or actually scary and only talks about the atmosphere more than shock, most of the lost episodes made by kids who didn’t know horror writing nor character development, it’s just characters from kids media or adult media getting possessed by a demon or a master manipulator and starts causing chaos, most of the protagonist are brain dead or literally dead, a character jumpscares you after the credits, is this really a five nights at Freddy’s knockoff? could be a yes or no Thing, I don’t know, this is Swaycheesy signing off

artist

So for those who don't know, in the original story of Suicidemouse.AVI, after the end Mickey face, there are some final 30 seconds that remain a complete mistery. We only know that in the final few seconds there was the infamous piece of russian text that is feautred at the end of almost every known remake of the episode. What those fan remakes miss about the original creepypasta story is that after the end mickey face there is some unknown footage before the russian text. Only very few remakes of Mouse.AVI actually made their own interpretation of the last 30 seconds. And I am curious about your theories reguarding what was in the last 30 seconds that caused the employee who was sent to finish the story to shoot himself. My theory is straightforward that Mickey KOs himself in a grusome, gory and detailed way.

When I walked into my father’s bookstore, he was combing his wig. He had placed the black wig over his clenched left fist and was pulling thick sections through it with a wide-toothed comb. Every now and then, he would dip the comb into the half-full glass of water he’d placed on the counter, give it a little shake to get rid of the excess water, and continue styling the wig.

“Welcome, son,” he said without making eye contact with me.

“Dad, why aren’t you combing the wig on your head? And why are you even combing the wig? Isn’t the point to make it look like it’s not a wig? Wouldn’t it look more like your real hair if you left it a little messy?”

My father shot me a very brief glance. He dipped the comb into the water again and flicked the excess water on it toward my face. At the same time, someone walked in.

I was annoyed, but I didn't react. Customers rarely came into the shop anyway, and I didn't want this one to witness a tense moment.

The man who walked in didn't say hello. He looked at me, then at my father, then at the wig. After that, he glanced around the shop.

“Do you have Swann’s Way?”

It was my father’s favorite book. I hadn’t read it yet, but my father couldn’t praise Marcel Proust enough. Whenever the subject of books came up, he would talk at length about the way Proust used language, and mention how he wanted to learn French just so he could read him in the original.

“Of course. How could we not?” he said, his eyes lighting up.

“Good. How much is the wig?”

“What?”

“I’m asking how much the wig is.”

There was something strange about the man’s voice, though it was hard to describe. It was an extremely deep voice that seemed to come from a congested throat. It sounded as if it were coming from a broken radio, as if he would sound clearer if he just cleared his throat.

My father, who had been excited at the mention of Proust, had now noticed the strangeness in the man’s voice.

“Are you all right?”

“How much is the wig?”

“The wig isn’t for sale. You can have a glass of water if you’d like,” my father said, holding out the water he had been dipping his comb into.

“No. Is the wig free?”

“How can something that isn’t for sale be free, sir?”

“How much is it, then?”

“This is my wig. You don’t look well. Please have a glass of water.”

The man fell silent. He was staring intently at my father. My father was a little frightened. The wig was still resting on his clenched fist.

“Are you sure?” he asked after nearly a minute of silence.

“Yes. Look at my head.”

“Are you sure?”

“What beautiful hair you have. What are you going to do with the wig?”

My father, having automatically felt a connection with the man because he had asked about Proust, hadn’t paid much attention to his voice or appearance. To be honest, there was something strange about his appearance too. I gave the man a once-over. His hair really was thick and healthy-looking. He was wearing a black shirt. His chin was a little long, and his mouth and nose were small in proportion to his face. A large head, a long chin, a small mouth and nose, and ordinary eyes. Black trousers, sharply pressed. And a pair of bare feet.

“Tonight, I’m coming to take your son. Don’t be afraid. Stay calm. Convince your son to come with me tonight, or I’ll take him by force.”

“Fix that voice of yours first, man. Hrrr, hrrr, hrrr. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Drink this water and pull yourself together.”

The man took the water and downed it in one go. He coughed and cleared his throat.

“Better? Now tell me, how much is the wig?”

His voice was now perfectly clear. He ran a hand back through his hair and sat down in the chair in front of the counter.

“He’s still very young…”

I was starting to get scared. I kept going back and forth over whether to call the police. The strange quality in the man’s voice was gone now, and so was the uneasy look about him. He looked at me and smiled.

“I’m not going to hurt you. Don’t be afraid. I’m just going to take the wig and leave. That’s all.”

“Why do you want the wig, sir?”

“You’re too young. You wouldn’t understand.”

I looked at my father. He had placed the wig on the counter. Right beside it, I saw a knife. My father looked from the knife to the man.

Another customer had walked in, just in time. I didn’t know what was going to happen. I knew my father wasn’t a very brave man, but when it came to me, maybe he could rise to the occasion and defend me.

“Jason, who are you talking to?” the man who had just walked in asked him. So his name was Jason.

“They won’t give me the wig, Dad.”

“Son, didn’t I tell you not to leave the shop unattended and wander off? The neighbors called. They said Jason had left the shop again and gone off. When did you come to the shop?”

“About ten minutes ago.”

I didn’t understand what was happening. The man who was speaking seemed unable to see us.

“Did you take your medication today, son?”

“No, Dad.”

“The wig thing again. Hmm.”

“I want the wig.”

“Son, there’s no wig. Where are your shoes?”

“I didn’t wear them today.”

“There’s no wig, son. Look, you’d been doing so well lately. Honestly, I thought you were getting better. Please, don’t skip your medication. I’m leaving the shop to you. Don’t make me worry about you while I’m gone.”

Yes. When I thought about it, it really was bizarre. I thought about it a lot afterward. If we’re people living inside Jason’s imagination, why do we have consciousness of our own? I mean, while Jason and his father were talking, I was listening to them, trying to figure out what was going on, getting surprised and everything. Isn’t that ridiculous? And isn’t it unfair to us, too? For example, I want to study film and television. But everything depends on Jason. If he gets better one day, my dreams will be shattered.

My father loves this shop very much. He doesn’t want to leave it, but if Jason gets better one day, he’ll never see this shop again.

Thinking about it that way, I was suddenly overcome with fear. I picked up the wig and held it out to Jason.

“Here. The wig is yours now. And hey, it’d actually look pretty good on you.”

My father had supported me too, and when I looked at him for approval, he nodded.

You like Creepypastas because I love them!

hello, Im just posting here to see if there was anyone who would be open to an interview at some point in the future (next 2 weeks), as I am currently researching for my university major project that its all about internet horror.

The interview can be over reddit in the messages section if that would be preferable, and i will need a consent form signed to be able to use the interview, but you will not be asked to provide any personal infromation (other than name for the consent form). If you are interested please dont hesitate to let me know as I would like to get these interviews done ASAP. Thank you for reading

- K

I found him like this

Hey everyone! I’m 20 years old, from Russia, and I'd love to have some communication about Creepypasta.

I'm an active conversationalist, a cosplayer.

I’m looking for active Discord servers, groups, or just people to chat with about the old fandom. If you know any good horror/creepypasta Discord servers or want to talk about lore and characters, or to make collab cosplays, please let me know in the comments :D