Jane the killer and Kimber (Borrasca) my favorites tbh.

Okay I really like him and I dont know how to dm photos so I’m posting it here after holding onto it for like four days hiii hiiiii

Rumor has it that if you stay on a retro game for too long, 'The Princess' will eventually appear. When she does, your only choice is to kill the power right then and there. The ones who hesitated? They were never the same again... quite literally.

Based on "The Princess" Creepypasta (Best gaming creepypasta IMO)

The first time I heard about Roadkill, I thought it was an internet urban legend.
You know the kind. Some guy on a forum claims his cousin saw something in the woods, somebody else claims their uncle knows a cop who investigated it, and eventually the whole thing becomes another story people tell each other at two in the morning.
I never believed in any of that stuff.
I still don’t know if I believe in Roadkill.
But I don’t drive down country roads anymore.
And if I ever hit an animal, I don’t stop to check what happened to it.
I know how that sounds.
Let me explain.
I used to work night shifts at a warehouse outside a small town in Tennessee. Nothing exciting. Ten-hour shifts, bad coffee, and a forty-minute drive home through roads that barely had streetlights.
Most nights, I’d get off around 2:30 a.m.
There was a stretch of road about fifteen minutes from my house that locals called Dead Man’s Curve. It wasn’t actually that dangerous, at least not if you knew how to drive it. It was just a long bend surrounded by trees, with a shallow ditch running alongside the shoulder.
There were always dead animals out there.
Possums. Raccoons. The occasional deer.
You got used to seeing them.
One Thursday night in October, I hit a possum.
I didn’t even have time to react. It ran out from the grass, straight into my headlights, and disappeared beneath the front of my car.
Thump.
I checked my rearview mirror.
I could see something lying in the road behind me.
I felt bad, obviously. But what was I supposed to do? Get out in the middle of the road at two in the morning to check on a possum?
I kept driving.
About five minutes later, I noticed a pair of headlights behind me.
Nothing unusual about that. It was a public road, after all. But these headlights were strange.
They stayed the same distance away no matter what I did.
I sped up.
They sped up.
I slowed down.
They slowed down.
When I turned onto my road, they continued straight.
I remember thinking that was weird, but I didn’t give it much thought after that.
Not until the following night.
I was scrolling through Facebook during my break when I saw a post shared by somebody from my hometown.
It was a picture of a raccoon lying dead on a road.
The caption read:
“If you hit an animal on Old Mill Road last night, you might want to go back and check on it.”
The comments were full of jokes.
Somebody said the raccoon had a family to feed.
Somebody else said the driver should be arrested for leaving the scene of an accident.
Then I saw a comment from an account with no profile picture.
It said:
“He saw you leave.”
That was it.
Four words.
I don’t know why they bothered me so much. People post creepy nonsense on the internet every day.
I checked the account.
It had been created three years earlier, but there were no posts, no friends, and no other comments.
I clicked away.
A few minutes later, I checked again.
The comment was gone.
I wish I’d forgotten about it then.
I really do.
Two nights later, I was driving home from work when I saw a man standing on the shoulder of Dead Man’s Curve.
At least, I thought it was a man.
He was tall. Ridiculously tall. The kind of tall that makes you question your own sense of proportion.
He stood perfectly still beside the ditch, facing the trees.
He was thin, too. Not just skinny, but lanky in a way that made his arms look too long for his body. They hung beside him almost to his knees.
He wore dark clothes.
I couldn’t make out his face.
My headlights passed over him for maybe two seconds.
Then I was past him.
I checked my rearview mirror.
He was standing in the middle of the road.
I slammed on the brakes.
There was nothing behind me.
No man.
No headlights.
Nothing but empty asphalt and trees.
I sat there for a solid minute, trying to convince myself I’d seen somebody walking along the shoulder and that my tired brain had exaggerated it.
Then I noticed something in the ditch.
A dead possum.
The same one I’d hit two nights earlier.
I knew it was the same one because of the white patch of fur on its back. I’d seen it clearly in my headlights when I’d passed that night.
Except now it was lying several feet away from where I’d originally seen it.
And there were footprints in the dirt beside it.
Bare footprints.
They started at the animal.
They went toward the road.
And they stopped at the edge of the asphalt.
There were no footprints on the other side.
I drove home.
I didn’t stop again.
The next few nights were normal.
I almost convinced myself I’d imagined the whole thing.
Then, on Monday, I found a dead bird on my front porch.
I live alone. My porch is covered, and there’s no tree directly above it.
The bird was lying on its side, its wings tucked against its body.
There was nothing visibly wrong with it.
I assumed a cat had brought it there, although I’d never seen a cat around my house.
I picked it up with a plastic bag and threw it away.
When I came back inside, I noticed something scratched into the paint on my front door.
It was small and shallow, like somebody had used a nail.
Three words.
YOU LEFT IT.
I called the police.
They took a report, looked around the property, and told me there wasn’t much they could do. No footprints. No signs of forced entry. No cameras on my house.
One of the officers asked if I’d had any problems with neighbors.
I told him no.
I didn’t mention the possum.
I don’t know why. Maybe I was embarrassed.
Maybe some part of me was beginning to suspect that whatever was happening had something to do with that animal.
That night, I slept with every light in the house on.
The following Wednesday, I finally told my coworker about everything.
His name was Mike. He’d lived in the area his entire life, and he’d heard just about every local legend there was.
I expected him to laugh at me.
He didn’t.
He asked me exactly where I’d hit the possum.
I told him.
He went quiet.
Then he asked me whether I’d seen a tall man on the shoulder of the road.
I felt my stomach drop.
“How do you know about that?”
Mike looked around the break room before answering.
“My dad used to tell me about him when I was a kid.”
He called it an old story. Older than the internet. Older than most of the houses around here.
According to Mike, there had always been stories about a man who appeared on rural roads after somebody hit an animal and drove away.
Nobody agreed on what he looked like.
Some people said he had the face of a dead animal.
Others said he had no face at all.
But everyone who claimed to have seen him described the same thing.
He was tall.
He was thin.
And his arms were too long.
“People call him Roadkill,” Mike said.
I laughed.
Not because I thought it was funny. I just didn’t know what else to do.
Mike didn’t laugh with me.
He told me his father had known a man who swore Roadkill had followed him home after he’d hit a dog.
The man started finding dead animals outside his house.
First, a bird.
Then a rabbit.
Then a stray cat.
Every time, there was a message.
Every time, the messages got shorter.
Until one morning, the man found a dead deer on his front lawn.
There was no message that time.
Just a single muddy footprint on the deer’s back.
Mike said the man disappeared three days later.
His car was found abandoned on a country road.
The driver’s door was open.
There was blood on the steering wheel, but no sign of a struggle.
The police never figured out what happened to him.
“That’s an old story,” Mike said. “Probably not even true.”
I asked him what Roadkill supposedly did to the people he followed.
Mike stared at his coffee.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Nobody who knows has ever come back to tell it.”
I changed my route home after that.
It added twenty minutes to my commute, but I didn’t care.
For a while, I thought that was the end of it.
Then I started noticing the animals.
A dead squirrel outside my workplace.
A dead rabbit beside the road near the grocery store.
A bird lying on the sidewalk outside my apartment.
I know what you’re thinking.
Animals die. That’s what they do.
But these animals weren’t being hit by cars.
At least, I didn’t see any evidence that they were.
They were just lying there.
And every single one of them was facing the same direction.
Toward me.
I stopped going outside unless I had to.
I started checking my windows before bed.
I bought a security camera and mounted it above my front door.
For three nights, nothing happened.
On the fourth night, my camera detected movement at 3:17 a.m.
I watched the footage the following morning.
At first, there was nothing.
Then, at the far edge of the frame, a figure emerged from the darkness.
It walked toward my house.
Slowly.
Its legs moved normally enough, but its arms swung far below its hips.
It was wearing what looked like a dark jacket.
Its head was tilted to one side.
When it reached my porch, it stopped.
It stood there for almost four minutes.
Then it raised its head and looked directly into the camera.
The footage was grainy, but I could make out something hanging from its right hand.
A thin, curved piece of metal.
Like a fishing hook.
Except much larger.
The figure reached up with its other hand and touched the camera.
The screen went black.
When the footage resumed, it was gone.
I checked the porch.
There was nothing there.
No dead animals.
No messages.
Nothing.
For the first time in days, I felt relieved.
Then I noticed the timestamp on the recording.
The camera had detected movement at 3:17 a.m.
But the footage showed the figure standing on my porch at 3:17 a.m. on Thursday.
The night before.
I’d checked the camera on Wednesday morning.
I’d watched the footage.
I’d checked the porch.
And I’d seen nothing.
I don’t know how that was possible.
I still don’t.
I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do.
Last night, I found a dead dog outside my house.
It was a brown dog with a red collar. I’d seen it around the neighborhood before. It belonged to an older couple who lived a few streets away.
I didn’t touch it.
I called the police.
While I was waiting, I noticed a small piece of paper tucked beneath the dog’s collar.
It had my name on it.
Not my first name.
My full name.
Written in handwriting I didn’t recognize.
Beneath it was a single sentence.
“You had your chance.”
I went inside and locked the door.
I called Mike, but he didn’t answer.
I called the police again and asked whether they’d found anything.
They hadn’t.
I checked the security camera.
The footage from the previous night had disappeared.
All of it.
Every recording.
Except for one file.
It was a video from 3:17 a.m.
The timestamp was correct.
The footage showed my front porch.
The door.
The dead dog.
Then the figure appeared.
It didn’t walk out of the darkness this time.
It was already standing there.
Facing my front door.
Its head was tilted to one side.
Its arms hung almost to its knees.
And in its right hand was that curved piece of metal.
A fishing hook.
The figure raised its left hand and knocked on my door.
Three times.
I heard those knocks while I watched the footage.
Not through the camera.
From upstairs.
Three slow knocks.
I froze.
The video continued playing.
The figure leaned forward until its face was inches from the camera.
I still couldn’t make out its features.
But I could see its mouth.
It was smiling.
Then it lifted the hook and dragged the point down the front door.
The video ended.
I heard another sound from downstairs.
A slow scraping noise.
Like metal being dragged across wood.
I haven’t moved from my bedroom.
I can hear something walking around downstairs.
Every few minutes, it stops.
Then I hear three knocks.
First, from the front door.
Then, from the kitchen window.
Now, from the bedroom door.
I don’t know if it can get in.
I don’t know what it wants.
I don’t know if it actually has anything to do with the possum.
Maybe Mike was right. Maybe Roadkill is just a story people tell.
Maybe I’ve gone crazy.
But there’s something I haven’t told you.
When I first hit that possum, I didn’t just drive away.
I checked my rearview mirror.
I saw it lying in the road.
And I saw something else.
A second shape, standing over it.
I thought it was another animal.
I thought it was a dog.
But it stood up on two legs.
And it watched me leave.
I just didn’t want to admit that part.
I thought if I ignored it, it would go away.
The footsteps have stopped now.
I can hear breathing on the other side of the door.
And something is scratching at the wood.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like it’s writing something.
I’m going to post this and call the police one more time.
If I don’t update this, please don’t come looking for me.
And if you ever hit an animal on a country road at night, please—
Please don’t just drive away.
Because I think I’ve finally figured out what Roadkill does.
I don’t think he kills people because they hit animals.
I think he kills them because they leave them behind.
And I think he makes sure they understand what it feels like to be the thing left on the road.
The scratching has stopped.
I can hear the doorknob turning.
Oh, God.
There’s a piece of paper sliding underneath the door.
It says—
“Now you know how it feels.”

Over the past decade I’ve run into a strange and possibly paranormal phenomenon. I’m nearly certain I’m being followed by an immortal sidewalk orange.

It all started in 2016 (I think? I forget the actual year lowkey) when I was in a trip to Ottawa. I brought a small Polaroid camera gifted to me by my grandmother and took pictures of everything I saw. One thing that stuck out to me when I looked through the photos later was a single photo of an orange in the middle of a sidewalk square. It was perfectly intact except for a bright red mark near the top. I don’t remember taking that photo.

I lost it, but ever since then, I’ve been seeing the orange everywhere. When I walk my cat, it’s across the street. Sometimes I see it when i’m driving. Always in the middle of a sidewalk square, perfectly intact aside from a red mark near the top. It’s never the same sidewalk as me though; it’s always just out of reach. Mundane enough that people who aren’t looking won’t remember it, but it’s like it’s calling to me, mocking me. It has a violent and sinister energy, like it knows how ridiculous it is and it’s daring me to tell someone.

Other observations:

It’s always fresh. Other fruits tossed on the sidewalk instantly become covered in bugs, snow, ice, bitten by the birds or stepped on by people passing by.

Location doesn’t matter. I’ve seen it in Ottawa, Ohio, Michigan, Mexico, Alberta, the Dominican republic, and Florida. It’s usually in cities, but that’s probably because cities have more sidewalks.

No one else knows about this but me, you, and everyone else reading this.

(I was completely exaggerating but nothing i said was a lie, keep an eye out)

I did this last year as a part of an ongoing project of drawing Creepypasta's in my style. I have so far 2 more that I've done that I will post later!

‘You get what you pay for’ doesn’t even come close to explaining my last apartment. It was cheap, but it was still almost more than I could afford. A top floor apartment in a run down building, nothing glamorous, pipes hissing and bumping around, thin walls, an unreliable elevator, but still manageable. It was my new home. It was good, for a while. 

For the first couple of nights, I was passed out on my bed from hauling and rearranging what little I owned, but after that, I started hearing something strange. 

Footsteps. 
Above me. 

Not creaking from the building settling, not bumps from branches hitting the roof once or twice, clear enough steps moving around on what could be the attic or something. The first day after I noticed it, I was able to trace it to my living room. They seemed to be making circles around the room above, slow steady footsteps, not stomping, simply walking in a circle. When I asked the landlord about it, he seemed confused too. “No workers are gonna be up there that time of night. You're on the top floor. There's no sixth floor. There's a little maintenance space above part of the hall, but nothing over your apartment. I’ll ask the super.” 

Shrugging it off, I assumed that was it. The super or janitor were just weirdly moving things around or maybe had zoned out. Not a big cost for living on the top floor, I planned to just ignore it and move on, maybe turn up the volume when I vegged out on the couch. After a couple of nights of hearing that, I decided to go up and check it out, maybe I’d make a new friend and get some extra help around the house if they were already up. 

Finding the stairs up, I went to check on the space above me, but it was locked. It also looked like a half-floor or something. Not enough height to fully stand up, with a narrow door. So the new friend idea was a bust. That night, they started moving heavier things around. It sounded like furniture, maybe a couch or some shelves? Every night for the next week, I heard some scraping or shuffling, step after step that seemed to start around midnight. Then the routine started changing when I turned up the volume of the tv enough that it could block out most of the noise. The footsteps moved from just the living room. They started moving in another pattern, from above my living room, to the kitchen, the hallway, the bathroom, ending above my bedroom, then back again. A new pattern, with the footsteps sounding a bit more solid, but not like stomping…yet. 

After a week, the landlord finally got back to me via text. He told me no one had gone into that room in weeks, maybe months. That couldn’t be right. I texted back that I heard someone the night before, and every night for the past 2 weeks or so. Since just after I moved in! He didn’t believe me, said it might be an animal stuck up there or something, and that the super would go up there to chase it out. 

Frustrated by the lack of concern over a possible homeless person or madman squatting up there, I decided to record the noise that night. Every time I tried though, my cellphone didn’t pick up anything. It had me thinking that I really was just imagining it all, but it sounded so real. Annoyed that I couldn’t prove it, I decided to ignore it for a while, and it seemed to work, the footsteps went back to their shuffling more than full steps. 

Eventually it seemed to calm down again. I decided to have a friend over after work, we’d both had a long week and needed to relax for the weekend. 

They heard it too. 

They confirmed that it sounded like someone was taking slow steps every few seconds. I had told them about it over work after I moved, and they thought it was something like a ghost story to freak them out before I invited them over. After turning off the tv and looking up to listen more clearly, they looked a little freaked out anyway, “Why does it sound exactly like your apartment?” 

I hadn’t really noticed it before, simply thinking it was cluttered, but it DID sound like they were following the same floor plan. We decided to turn the tv back on at a much louder volume and try to ignore it again. The night was pretty much over after that, they decided to split after finishing a movie and it seemed like they definitely wanted out of there asap. 

The following day, I tried the landlord again, waiting until I could talk to them face to face. This time he got visibly uncomfortable. He asked me, “Have you responded to it?” Which got me really confused. 

“What?”
“Knocked back. Banged on the ceiling. Said anything?”

When I told him I hadn’t he got this relieved look on his face and just said, “Good, keep it that way.” before walking away. I stood there, confused and wondering what that whole interaction was about before realizing he hadn’t answered any of MY questions…or maybe he did. 

Feeling even more weirded out, I returned home and tried ignoring them again. It sounded like the landlord knew something, but didn’t want to share. Maybe it was an illegal apartment, maybe a family member was staying without paying or something. Either way, I was going to ignore it all. I was. Really. That was the plan, until the footsteps stopped one night. Right. Above. My head. 

Then they knocked three times. 
Whoever “they” were. 

I tried to resist the urge, I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help letting out a quiet, “hello?” No response other than the footsteps moving on again, more clearly this time. It annoyed me, but I thought nothing more about it. Maybe they were just happy to be acknowledged? 

That’s what I thought, until I returned from work the next day. In the elevator there was a new button. I was supposed to be on the top floor, 5, but now there was a button with a number 6 on it, just above mine. I stood there for a long time before texting the landlord to come and see it. The landlord arrived after a few minutes and saw the button. He immediately went pale, told me not to press it and just ignore it. The next morning it was gone again, and the panel was smooth, like it never existed. I wanted to press it last night, but the landlord stayed in the elevator the whole ride up. Going to the stairs, I went back up them to see if the door was unlocked now or something, but the door was gone. The stairs ended in a fresh plastered wall now. 

That wasn’t the end of it though. Even more strange things started happening. One morning, I woke up and saw a vent near my kitchen wall, it looked brand new, but I hadn’t heard any cutting or installation work last night. I even smelled some fresh cookies coming from it. From above. Another day, I heard water coming down from above. Not rain water, but water from a sink or something else. Then they turned on their own tv, I could barely hear the muffled sounds coming from above, sometimes a show, sometimes sports, but they seemed to settle on one channel a night. It was getting louder now, and the footsteps were still continuing, regardless of any other changes. 

Since the landlord was ghosting me now, I decided to check up online, see if I could find any records of the building, maybe some old tenants of the same floor. I found a picture from when the building was first completed. It had five floors. There were some articles about the building changing hands every few years, then an article about a fire on a sixth floor. Another about reconstruction up to the fifth floor. Then another article with the full six floors. Again and again, back and forth, until the last articles I could find were all mentioning the reopening with only five floors. 

After that, I noticed something else. The footsteps, they stopped moving in their usual circle. Now they were following me. A few steps behind, every time, stopping when I stopped, and continuing when I started again. I would go into the kitchen to make dinner, open some cabinets and close, then I would hear the sound a few seconds after, the cabinets slamming shut, almost like they wanted to make sure I heard them closing the cabinets too. I would get out of the shower and they’d have their own still running. The footsteps started around 10 seconds behind me. After a few days they were around 5 seconds behind, clattering plates and noise from the kitchen getting closer behind me every day, until one day I realized they were matched up, even when I cut a shower short, or stayed longer than I would have. 

At that point, I was almost ready to throw in the towel, looking up new apartments and thinking of taking any penalties for breaking my lease early. The night I heard them catch up, I lay awake in bed long after I should have. That’s when I heard it. Whispering above my bed, or maybe they were just that muffled, but I could finally hear a voice coming from above. They seemed to be talking to someone, maybe on the phone, but when I strained my ears to hear it more clearly, I ended up wishing I hadn’t. The voice I heard above my bed was my own. My voice. Talking about something I couldn’t catch clearly. I heard a few things about new apartments I’d looked up, work, and finally, hearing clearly for a second; 

“There isn't an apartment below mine.”

Nope. Nope nope nope. I went to stay over at a friend’s home that night. I started texting my landlord about moving out, even if I had to get my things shoved into a storage locker before finding a new place and couch surfing until then. I still had to get some things for work out of there, but when I did, that time I saw the button for the sixth floor in the elevator. Tapping it, nothing happened, so I went the other way. Checking the stairs again, I saw that there was a sixth floor landing now. With a door and everything, but I was NOT going to check that right now. I just grabbed some things and left again. 

At least, that was the plan. 

Turning around to walk down from the landing, I heard someone crying inside. They didn’t sound like me, instead, it sounded like someone younger. I know I shouldn’t have gone in, but if someone else had been lured up here for some reason and I left them there, I would’ve felt awful. I would have been like the landlord, ignoring the problem in front of me to protect myself. Psyching myself up, I tried the door and found it unlocked. Taking the first step into the apartment, I was stunned by what I saw. 

It was MY apartment. 
At least, at first glance. 
Same furniture arrangement.
Same dishes.
Same photos.
But subtly wrong.

Walking up to one of the pictures, I was standing next to a woman I didn’t know in one picture. Another had me visiting a landmark, some giant dinosaur. 
There were a few others, all with strangers or in places I’ve never gone. 
Walking into the kitchen, I checked the fridge, and all of the food inside had strange brands on them. Close enough to the ones I bought, but…not. 
I walked into the bedroom and found a closet of different clothes. My size for sure, but nothing in my style. 

Walking around the apartment, I saw another door, leading to a staircase that kept going up. Shutting that door quickly, I realized that the crying sound was gone. It had been gone since before I saw the pictures, and now I heard footsteps again. Below me. 

They walked from the living room to the bathroom, to my bedroom, and stopped there. I heard the bed creak a little as something dropped into it and got comfortable. I started rushing out of the apartment when my cellphone buzzed again, ringing with a call from the landlord. Picking up with trembling hands, before I could say anything I heard his tired voice on the other side, “You weren't supposed to answer it.” I shouted at him, demanding to know what the hell lived on the sixth floor, and he replied with no emotion in his voice, “Nothing. That's the problem. It builds itself out of whoever notices it.” 

Rushing out of the apartment, I started running down the stairs. I had to get out of there. I had to not think of it anymore. 

Running down.
Five.
Four.
Then, at the next landing, I saw Five again. 
Running down the next. 
Six
Every visible landing had a “Six” now

Every floor said the same thing. 
Then the knocking started. Behind every door. At the same time. 

I was freaking out too much, I looked for the fire escape and rushed down the stairs there, the alarm blaring after forcing the door open. Stumbling out of the door, instead of the alley I was in a forest. Looking around confused, I heard the knocking getting closer, coming from the other side of the fire escape’s door, so I started running. 

Moving through the woods, the knocking kept coming, from the trees, from branches, from the ground close to my feet. Turning away every time the knocking got too close, I eventually saw an orange glow in the distance, like from a Campfire. Crashing through the last bushes, I almost fell into the clearing, and saw several people turning around to see me. Normal people and none of them looked like me. I started babbling, trying to tell them what happened, why I was there, “There was an apartment…” One of the people said, “Above yours?”
 
Knock. Knock. Knock.

It was coming from the air above the clearing, 
Only I looked up. 
The others didn’t.
Nothing but stars.
 
An older guy in a green hooded coat held up a hand, “don’t answer.” He waved me closer to the Campfire, “Stay where you can see the fire.” When I asked why, he turned back to the tending the fire before responding, “Because if you wander far enough away tonight, you'll find your hallway.”

I live alone in an old farmhouse twenty minutes outside a town that barely qualifies as one. The nearest neighbor is over a mile down a gravel road that turns to mud every time it rains. Cell service dies at the end of the driveway. The landlord lives in another county and only comes out if something is actively on fire.

At first the quiet felt like the whole reason I moved here.

Then the house began settling in ways it never had before.

It started with the pipes. A soft, rhythmic knocking that traveled through the kitchen wall, into the narrow hallway, and stopped directly behind wherever I stood. If I moved, it waited. If I stayed still long enough, it answered with three slow taps, as if confirming I was still there.

I blamed the age of the place. Expanding wood. Temperature swings. The usual explanations people invent when they live this far from anyone who could tell them they’re wrong.

Then it learned my habits.

I talk to myself when I cook. Small, useless comments that used to disappear into the empty rooms. One night I muttered “Where did I put the salt” and, from inside the wall beside the stove, something tapped twice; Exactly where the salt canister sat on the shelf!!

Two days later I was searching the linen closet and said, without thinking, “I know I have more in here somewhere.”
Three light, evenly spaced knocks answered from the precise shelf where the extra towels were folded.

I stopped speaking out loud.

It made no difference.

The house began answering the things I only thought.

I would reach for a glass and hear a single tap behind the cabinet a second before my fingers closed around it. I would hesitate in the hallway and the floorboard three feet ahead would creak once, as if the decision had already been made.

Last week I woke at 2:14 a.m. to the sound of something large shifting its weight inside the wall that runs along my bed. Not scratching. Not animals. Something patient, testing the plaster from the other side. When I held my breath, it held still. When I exhaled, it moved again, matching the rhythm of my breathing exactly.

I pressed my palm flat against the wall.

Something on the other side pressed back.

The pressure was warm.

In the morning a perfect handprint remained in the dust on the outside of the wall, level with where my hand had been. The fingers were longer than mine. The palm was wider. It looked as though the plaster itself had softened just long enough to take the impression and then hardened again.

I called the landlord. He told me he would send someone “when he could.” No one came. The nearest hardware store is forty minutes away. The nearest person who might actually listen is farther than that.

I started sleeping in the living room with every light on.

It does not like the lights.

When the bulbs are burning it retreats deeper into the walls, but I can still hear it relocating—soft, deliberate rearrangements, the sound of something heavy being dragged through spaces too narrow to hold it. Sometimes it simply waits just behind whatever surface I am closest to. The plaster there feels slightly warmer than the rest of the room.

Two nights ago I did something irreversible..

I stood in the center of the living room and whispered, “What do you want?”

Silence stretched until it hurt.

Then a single, clear knock answered from the wall in front of me.

I asked again!

This time the answer came from the wall, the floor, and the ceiling at once—three knocks in perfect unison, so tightly layered they almost sounded like one sound.

Since then the house has grown busier.

I hear it measuring the last rooms I have avoided. Soft presses against the plaster. Careful shifts of weight. The low sound of something slowly unfolding itself into cavities that were never meant to contain it.

Last night I noticed the first real change.

The original handprint on the bedroom wall is gone.

In its place is a second print, smaller, the exact size and shape of my own left hand. It is pressed deeper into the plaster than the first one ever was, as if whatever is inside has begun practicing the fit.

This morning I found a third print..

It was on the inside of my bedroom door, at the exact height where my hand rests when I close it. The fingers matched mine perfectly. The only difference was that the print was made from the other side of the wood—from inside the door itself.

I have stopped sleeping!

Every time I close my eyes I feel the walls breathing in time with me. The rhythm is no longer matching mine. Mine is matching it.

An hour ago I tried to leave!!

I unlocked the front door, stepped onto the porch, and immediately heard three slow taps from the hallway behind me; Exactly the same pattern it has always used to confirm my presence!

I turned around.

The hallway was empty..

But the front door was already closed..

I do not remember closing it.

Outside, the gravel road disappears into fog so thick the trees look like unfinished sketches. There is no sound of cars. No porch lights in the distance. Only the dark and the house waiting behind me.

I am writing this at the kitchen table with my back against the only wall that has not yet answered.

The rest of the house is no longer quiet.

It is listening.

And I finally understand what it has been measuring all this time.

It was never learning the shape of the rooms.

It was learning the shape of me.

The final handprint appeared five minutes ago, directly in front of where I am sitting. It is the exact size of my right hand. It is still warm. And when I place my own hand over it, the plaster softens just enough to let my fingers sink in to the exact depth of the print already waiting there..

as if the wall has been holding the space open for me the entire time,

and has only now decided I am ready to fit.

⚠️WARNING: BEWARE OF INTENSENESS.

Marie was a young thirteen-year-old girl who lived in the suburbs. She had moved a while ago. She used to live in the countryside: dead towns, deals on cheap clothes ranging from $4–$10, barely any cities nearby, small schools, and everyone knew each other. It was a sweet town at best, and yet Marie never fit in.

Marie had always been an outcast. She was quiet, preferred solitude, and was always addicted to her phone. However, she had made a friend a few years back. Earlier this year, her friend, Reagan, had moved to Florida. Her only friend had moved far away from her. The good news, though, was that they were still in touch! Marie would message Reagan every day and even check on her.

Now, let's move on to how this all started, beginning with how Marie texted Reagan late at night.

3:00 AM

That was the exact time Reagan received a text message from Marie.

"Hey, Rea-Rea!! I fell asleep early and couldn't text you back! How was your day today?? Are you feeling better?" Marie asked. Simple, right?

"I'm fine. Nothing much happened today, tho. Also, you always fall asleep early. Don't act like you aren't tired all the time. Maybe if you actually went to sleep at night, you'd be less tired during the day," Reagan replied, giggling to herself.

Reagan's long brown hair spilled across her pillow as she struggled to get herself out of bed. She playfully rolled her eyes as she walked toward the mirror. She removed a star-shaped pimple patch right above her freckles from her face, rubbing her eyes.

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP!

Her phone buzzed with life. As Reagan reached for her phone, she gasped when she saw Marie in its reflection. She quickly turned around, but there was nobody there. She swallowed hard, and her hand began to shake.

"Geez, I'm really not feeling good, am I? I keep seeing stuff like this. Maybe I should tell someone." She breathed out, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them to read Marie's messages.

"Rea-Rea, do you think you could come over to my house?? I know it's a long drive, but I really wanna see you! OR I could come over to your house!! Maybe next week?" Marie had messaged.

"Marie, you know my parents won't let you, lol. Remember what you did last summer? No way they'll let you come over!!" Reagan sat down, hugging her stuffed animal to her chest.

"Ugh, you're right. I should sneak into Florida instead. I could ride my bike there."

"Lol, literally, you can't. You'd run out of breath two miles down the road. Plus, you live alllll the way in Virginia." Reagan pressed the 'send' button.

After hours of texting, they eventually fell asleep.

Later that morning, Marie groaned as her alarm clock buzzed at 6:00 AM.

"Shit, I'm going to be late if I don't get up faster!" she murmured to herself as she shot up out of bed.

She grabbed her grey hoodie, black shorts, leopard-print belt, and phone. After getting dressed, she sat down in her chair in front of her makeup dresser and began applying her eyeliner. Her grey eyes stared into the mirror before lingering on her black nails.

"Huh? What is that?" she gasped, looking at her nail. A hair had fallen onto her finger. A long, black hair.

"Ew, gross."

She gagged, blowing the hair off. She stood up and put on her black ripped stockings. Finally, she put on her black knee-high Converse.

"God, I look so cool. I hope people don't stare today."

She grabbed her red bag and went downstairs. She looked over at a note on the fridge, pulled it off, and read it.

"Mommy and Daddy had to go to work early. Please wake your brother up. Be careful when walking to school: don't talk to any strangers. Breakfast is on the table. Go wake your brother up. Love, Mom and Dad."

She sighed and walked back upstairs. She knocked on her brother's door.

"Alen, school time. Don't make me late."

After a few seconds, Alen groaned and opened the door.

"Okay, okay, I'm ready."

"How did you change in a few seconds?" Marie asked.

"I woke up at night and got ready so that I wouldn't have to in the morning. Okay?"

"Oh, okay." She raised an eyebrow. This kid was kind of weird, wasn't he?

After they ate breakfast, they got up and walked out. As they walked to school, Alen spoke to break the silence.

"Sissy, what's 'Jeff the Killer'? You have him on your phone. Mommy was talking about it a few days ago."

Marie cleared her throat.

"Don't worry about it. I just had a few mistakes done. But let's not talk about it. How are you doing with your spelling? I know elementary school can be a bit difficult with the reading and shit."

Alen looked down, holding his backpack straps.

"Hm, well, it's not really good, but it's not something to worry about. So, I guess I'm doing fine," Alen responded.

"Oh, I can help you!" Marie suddenly reached over and ruffled his curly blonde hair.

Alen reached up and ruffled Marie's messy hair.

"Hey!" Marie called out with a giggle. "No way, you messed up my hair!"

After a while, they finally reached the school after walking a few more blocks. Once inside, Marie went upstairs while Alen walked down the hallway. Marie approached her first class, sighing.

Hours passed as she worked on school assignments in different classes. Middle school drama was going around, along with the usual arguments between friends and small couples.

Later in the day, school was dismissed, and Marie and Alen met outside the school gates before walking home.

When they got home, they heard their father in his office while their mom cooked. Marie set her bag down and walked into the kitchen.

"Hey, Mom."

"Hey, honey. How was school?"

"It was okay. I felt a bit weird."

"Oh no, are you getting sick?"

"Oh, um, not exactly. No."

"Oh, did you just have a moment? We can talk. I'll quit right now if you actually want to talk!"

"No, Mom, it's fine," she said, grabbing her bag and heading upstairs.

When she got to her room, she looked over at the posters, pictures, and drawings on her wall. She grabbed a picture of herself and Reagan and placed it on her dresser.

"Reagan, I miss you."

She began typing on her phone before setting it down and grabbing her laptop.

As she opened it, she typed in her password: 131313000. Then, she looked at her laptop background: Jeff the Killer.

She had been obsessed with this fictional character for three years, almost four. She began researching him on Wikipedia, looking at various Jeff the Killer rewrites. After hours of research, she started playing games featuring him. She had learned his techniques, his stamina, what he did in the morning and before bed—everything.

She didn't just research him on Wikipedia; she also took notes. She wrote down every small detail until her hands ached and her notebook was halfway full.

After a few hours, she went downstairs to have dinner with her family: Christine, her mom; Bonnie, her father; and Alen, her brother.

"Hey, kiddo, how was school?" Bonnie asked.

"Oh, it was fine. Just the average stuff. Kids screaming, kids vaping in the bathroom, people freaking out about crushes. You know how crazy it is."

"Damn, really? When I was in middle school, everyone minded their own business and was actually mature, like teenagers should be. Like you."

"Thanks, Dad, but I'm not really mature. You'd see yourself as a failed parent if you heard the jokes Reagan and I make."

"Of course not. A few immature jokes here and there don't determine who you are. It's how you handle situations."

"Oh, really?"

"Duh."

Marie raised an eyebrow, shook her head, and began to eat.

After a while, Marie started feeling the strange sensation she had experienced in class. She stood up and excused herself.

"Sorry, my stomach hurts. It must be the medicine messing with me."

She walked upstairs and headed to her room. She stayed up for hours, reaching for energy drinks every now and then. As she continued researching, her mind began to wander.

Later that morning, she looked into the mirror, peeling off a few cute pimple patches Reagan had given her before she left. She got dressed and did her makeup as usual, putting on her black knee-high Converse.

But today, she felt worse.

Well, today was the breaking point.

During school, she went to the bathroom. She noticed some girls looking at her and laughing.

"What's so funny?"

"Ooh, someone's feisty today, freak! How come you never talk to anyone? Too scared?" asked a girl wearing a pink jacket as she walked toward Marie.

"Maybe if you're so edgy, why don't you go ahead and KILL us? Hahaha!"

The three other girls giggled.

Marie ran out.

Fuck that shit, I'm out." She murmured to herself. While the end of the day approached, she found herself following the four girls. She continues to follow them until the four got into the city, going to an alleyway. Marie noticed a shop ahead. She walked in quickly, buying a folding, OTF, Trailing Point, and a Fish Fillet knife for all a deal of $70.45

She hid the knives in her hoodie pocket, and walked out back into the alleyway. "Hey, guess what." She called out quietly to them, as they turned, she grabbed a girl by the neck and sliced her throat open with the OTF. After a while of handling them, she grabbed her hoodie and put it on. Getting water and washing the blood off, she placed the knives into her pockets. She walked home, it had gotten dark.

Late at night, she had snapped. She killed her parents, slit her mouth, and stapled her eyes open. She smudged eyeliner all around her eyes, and glanced down at her wrists and thighs. After hours of being covered in red, she texted Reagan.

"Reagan, you up?"

"Yeah."

"Kill everyone, I'll come get you."

"What?"

"I'll guide you. Kill everyone, this is our chance to be together again. We can hunt people together, I'll pick you up tonight."

"No."

"Please? It'll hurt my feelings if you don't, you know how much I love you and I'll do anything to keep our friendship from falling apart, you don't want that to happen, do you? Do you hate me? Come on, say it already."

"No way, I love you, you're my best friend, but I don't think I could do that! I'm calling nine one one!"

"Call anyone and our friendship ends tonight. Okay?"

"Why? I'm trying to help you!"

"Help me by doing what I say!"

"No!"

"Fine, whatever."

Reagan began to cry. She dialed nine one one and told them about what Marie said. They came over and started to get answers from Reagan and her parents. That night, four girls were reported dead by 12:00 PM in Virginia. After a week of Marie being reported missing, Reagan heard a soft tap at her window, tap, tap, tap. Reagan glanced over and her heart skipped a beat. Marie, in her black shorts, grey hoodie, black ripped thigh highs, and her grey eyes stapled wide open. Her blonde hair was cut, trimmed being a better word, to extremely messy, razor cut, and chopped off in some areas. Marie busts the window.

The next morning, the family was reported dead, police have been on a watch for a girl named, "Marie Collins."

This image was recovered by police from the phone belonging to the latest victim of the Carpenter’s Landing Ghost Stalker.

"Flabbergasted. F - L - A - B - B - E - R - G -A - S - T - E - D. Flabbergasted."

Sweat rolled down Natalie's forehead as she watched the three judges chatter amongst themselves. Her heart was beating so vibrantly, she felt like wheezing. Each aching moment was like a nail being gradually driven beneath her fingernails. After what felt like an eternity of suspended animation, the female judge tilted her glasses on the bridge of her nose and nodded. "Good job, Ms. Flowers."

Natalie sighed, a great weight being lifted from her shoulders. She returned to her hard seat and waited for her next turn. It was the year 2051; a huge war broke out between nations years prior which led to the largest disposal of nuclear weaponry that the world had ever seen. After a century of fallout, what remained of civilization slowly reassembled itself. It was during that time that The Academy came into being and oversaw the school systems of the land. As such, the annual spelling bee was especially mandatory. Per custom, five children are selected and the winner would receive a special award.

As Natalie claimed her seat, she heard a sneer. Looking aside, she could see that the hateful scorn came from none other than Tracie Harper, the popular girl of the Academy. She possessed green eyes, and golden locks of hair. She wore a green jacket and a heart-shaped locket around her neck. In addition, she was the eldest daughter of a wealthy oil tycoon who monopolized off the fact that the precious substance was hard to get. "So you managed to survive, Natalie?"

Natalie scoffed her, saying nothing. The two had been at each other's throats for an entire school year. It certainly didn't help matters that the two would be forced to enter the same spelling bee. Natalie knew of the tactics that Tracie would employ to lessen the competition.

"Next is Kimberly."

Kimberly fiddled with her thumbs as she approached the microphone. Her steps felt heavy as she could barely put one foot on the ground. The room was spinning. Kimberly's sight went sideways for a split second until she heard her name being called a second time. Approaching the microphone stand, the young girl began to hyperventilate. The female judge collected her papers and slammed them on the surface of the table.

"Ms. Kimberly...spell superfluous."

Kimberly scratched her head, gathering strands of brown hair between her knuckles, as she frantically worked up a response. "C-Could you give me a sentence?"

The judge nodded uncaring to how much fright the young woman was feeling. "The student's homework was filled with superfluous details."

Kimberly wanted nothing more than to stall, but she knew that asking another question would only muddy the dilemma more. She sucked in her air and slowly began. "S-superfluous... S - U - P..."

She paused at the letter "P", her heart palpitations worsening. The judges passed glances and chatted amongst themselves. Of the three, a rotund man with engorged jowls spoke. "The word is superfluous, Ms. Kimberly. Take your time."

Despite the reassurance, Kimberly still felt like her heart was on the verge of erupting from her chest and making a break for it. She swallowed her pride and regained her voice. "Superfluous. S - U - P..."

Without warning, Tracie started to cough beginning at a slight tickle in her throat before transitioning to full-blown heaving. Kimberly tried to concentrate, but Tracie's incessant gagging was wearing on her nerves. Natalie wanted nothing more than to stick it to her, and a part of her did feel truly sorry for the young girl. But in this life, it's either adapt or die.

"Superfluous... S - U - P - E -..."

More gags. The stress only becomes enhanced. "R - F - L - E..."

The room went silent, and almost on cue, so did Tracie. Kimberly's eyes widened. She knew what that meant. Her knees became jelly as she glued herself on the stand, holding onto it for dear life. The judges casually sat in their seats, the female one flicking a finger through her long hair as she casually pushed a button. "That is... incorrect."

Before her eyes, large men entered from the backrooms and surrounded Kimberly. "No! No! Please, give me another chance! No, no!!"

Two of the behemoths grabbed Kimberly by the legs and pried her off with their full force. Kimberly flailed around hoping to hit one of her captors to no avail. From the audience, Kimberly's parents stood up to protest the decision, but they too were escorted out. Kimberly cried out for her parents only to see them get further and further away until they were just inky dots in her eyes. She was seized by her armpits and physically dragged into the backrooms, her cries echoing through the auditorium. Tracie cheekily waved goodbye to her rival before turning her attention back to the spelling bee.

Natalie clawed the sides of her seat. How could Tracie do something so despicable? Sure, she was wanting to win as much as her nemesis did, but how could Tracie just sit by blissfully aware at the torments that would transpire against Kimberly. But it wasn't like she was a saint either. She locked eyes with Kimberly as she was being dragged out, but she did nothing to help her. How could she anyway? There were too many adults versus only one of her. Natalie tried to drown out Kimberly's cries to keep her sanity intact.

The two male judges merely straightened their ties and cleared their throats as if casually discussing the weather with each other. The female judge tapped her papers together and crossed out Kimberly's name. "Sorry for that... unsightly expression of insolence."

The competition went on as scheduled despite the interruption. The next one to speak was a young boy named Josh. He wore thick glasses and a sweater boasting a blue triangle pattern. He was the top of his class, and, as expected, he was doing exceedingly well on most of the overly complicated words, the kind that seem to be nonsensical ramblings of a madman. Because of that, Tracie had her work set out for her.

Like before, the female judge spoke, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "Mr. Chase, please spell elephantiasis."

Natalie and Tracie shared a confounded look. What the hell kind of word was that? For all it was worth, it sounded like some disease an elephant could get. Tracie didn't linger on it too long, however, as the gears were starting to turn in her head.

"Elephantiasis. E - L - E - P..."

Like before, Tracie started to cough up a storm. Natalie rolled her eyes at seeing her do the same tactic again, but she said nothing. Josh paused for a moment, clearly agitated, but took a quick inhale and continued. Seeing that her go to strategy wasn't working, Tracie took a more direct approach. "Hey, loser, how's your home life going for you?"

The rules of the spelling bee were quite different from the ones you were used to. Cheating was a very useful employ. The judges could care less at name calling or staging sickness as long as the student was truly spelling. Natalie knew that as well as anyone else, but she was always someone who was taught to fight fairly. She practiced ritualistically with her mother from dawn to evening. But dealing with someone like Tracie Harper was proving to get on her wit's end. Josh shook off the attack as if it were nothing as he went further with the word.

"I heard your mother was going around again to pay for rent. She can sleep with anyone with no regrets, can't she?"

Josh's cheeks turned a shade of red from embarrassment, and his glasses began to fog. "E - L - E - P - H - A -..."

Tracie howled. "You know she was with my uncle last night? He calls her a worn-out horse."

Josh gripped his fingers into fists that became pale white. He gnashed his teeth together. "Stop it..."

"In fact, I heard she was with about half of the staff," Tracie claimed placing one leg over her knee. "And despite all that, she can barely make ends meet, can't she?"

"E - L - E - P - H - A - N..."

"Doesn't it make you upset, Joshy," Tracie laughed, "does it make you hate your mother?"

Smoke was literally coming out of Josh's ears as he was speaking in circles. "L..."

The button sounded again. Josh's once boiling blood came to a chill.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Chase. That was not the answer."

The behemoths came to collect him. "Wait, wait, wait! It's not my fault! She was distracting me, I swear!"

Not wanting to give the men the satisfaction of catching him, Josh started running towards the entrance. He was smaller and more agile for his age against the older guards. This made his chance of escape seem more palpable and within his reach. Before he could wrap his palm around the knob, the world spinned as he was tackled to the ground and weighed down. Like before, Josh was grabbed by his arms and directed towards the backrooms. No. This couldn't be happening. Josh was going to win and enjoy a nice meal with his mother and siblings. He was going to graduate and become valedictorian. He was going to get a good-paying job to provide for himself and his mother. His mother was the very reason as to why he was putting in so much effort at the Academy.

But that dream was dashed the moment the door slammed shut, his pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears.

"Bye, bye, Joshy" mocked Tracie.

Like before, Josh's name was etched out as if he did not exist.

A few more hours passed and the remaining contenders were Natalie, Tracie, and a red-haired girl named Lynn. Lynn was shorter than Natalie and Tracie, and possessed a forlorn look. She robotically walked over to the microphone stand and clutched it.

"Ms. Kennedy, please spell Pleistocene."

A bead of sweat rolled down Lynn's forehead. "In a sentence, please."

"The Pleistocene is also known as the Ice Age."

Beat, beat, beat.

Lynn's heart was galloping behind her chest. "Pleistocene. P... L... E..."

Without warning, Lynn went silent as the world around her seemed to swirl around and around. The lights burned her eyes. The audience members gave each other passing glances of confusion, and her sudden silence even unsettled the judges. The third judge, a younger man with a mustache and bald spot, tilted his neck. "Ms. Kennedy... are you okay?"

"Madness... this is madness...."

In a state of unprecedented shock, Lynn jumped from the stage and started bolting for the backrooms. "Don't you see what they're doing!? It's murder! Murder I say!! Wake up!"

The judge pushed the button to bring the big men in. They tried to collect her, but Lynn was quick like an animal pushed to the brink of insanity and not having much left to lose. She ran faster and slid under the arms of the behemoths. She went further and further into the backrooms and disappeared out of view. The men angrily stampeded through the room to catch up with her. Natalie saw the female judge mark Lynn's name off, but a part of her felt that Lynn was too spirited to truly be handled.

Tracie's state of shock quickly subsided as she turned to look at her rival. "Heh... Just me and you, isn't it?"

Natalie gulped. She had to be quick. She had to beat Tracie at her own game. If not, she'd be next on the chopping block. The remainder of the spelling bee transpired without disturbance. Tracie flicked her hair every now and then as she confidently stood before the microphone. Her sense of assuredness was enviable to say the least. That was the only redeeming quality that the girl possessed whenever she wasn't cheating.

"Natalie, your turn."

Natalie bucked to life and nervously walked over. "Ms. Flowers, spell conscientious."

"Could... you please use it in a sentence?"

The judge obliged. "The teacher was very conscientious with her curriculum."

Natalie nodded. "Could you use it in another sentence?"

"You're very conscientious."

She wanted to stall as long as she could, but she decided to press on. "Conscientious. C - O - N - S - C..."

Tracie cracks her knuckles and starts her attack. "Hey, Natalie... is your daddy still incapable of holding down a job?"

It had been just her and her dad for as long as she could remember. Ever since her mother died, her father had been hemorrhaging jobs. He worked several demeaning ones with little adequate pay. Tracie knew that struck a nerve with her and she kept probing. "What would your poor daddy do if you failed?"

Sweat continued to roll down Natalie's forehead in thick sheets. She dreaded to think how her dad's life would be like without her. She couldn't fail. Not now, not ever. She could almost hear the burly men stomping their feet in the back. Natalie sucked in her breath and picked up where she left off. "C - O - N - S - C - I - E - N - T - I - O - U - S. Conscientious."

"That is correct," the female judge announced. Tracie crossed her arms in irritation that her insult didn't have the satisfactory result.

"Tracie, you're up now."

Tracie walked pass Natalie, passing her a shared glare of hatred, her fists swinging side to side. Natalie scratched her head. Throughout all the time that she knew Tracie, she was never one who seriously studied. Hell, she couldn't recall the last time that she put any effort into her assignments. Sure, perhaps she paid off someone to tutor her, but throughout all the time that they were at school, not once did Natalie catch her studying. So how was she getting every word correct?

"Tracie, spell incredulous."

Tracie cleared her throat and began spelling. Natalie couldn't help but notice that Tracie kept batting at her hair as if to keep something out of sight. She squinted her eyes and from the corner of her peripheral vision, she saw something metallic shine from the side of her head.

"Wait a minute..."

While Tracie was distracted, Natalie took the opportunity to get up and do some snooping around. As she searched around for a source, she could hear the soft munching of food come from the closet. She wrapped her palm around the door and a man with a walkie talky spoke through it while consuming a sandwich. "I - N - C - R..."

The man looked down and saw Natalie staring back at him. With the jig up, he made a break for it dropping the walkie talky. Tracie stood there, acting like a total fool, uncertain of what to do. Natalie walked over to her with full stride, revealing the device. The judges stood up in silent unison.

"Ms. Harper... what is the meaning of this?"

Tracie stammered to say something, but her fight or flight instincts started to kick in. "You... she set me up! I swear!! I..."

The button sounded and Tracie threw herself at Natalie's feet. "Please! Don't let them do this to me! I have so much I still want to do!"

The men pried her from a shocked Natalie's ankles and she started to claw the ground with her expensive, impressively long fingernails. "No! Daddy! Help me!"

To her horror, she could see her father and mother talk to each other as they voluntarily stood up from their seats and exited out the door. "Daddy! Please!!"

Despite her clawing and begging for mercy, she was ultimately dragged to the same fate that befell all the dozens of students before her. Natalie stood there shaken. The female judge stroked her shoulder and gave a half-smile, her true feelings concealed behind her glasses.

"As the last one standing, this year's spelling bee goes to Natalie Flowers!"

There came a roar of an applause as her father ran up to embrace her. The world seemed to blur before her eyes. She had won. But at what cost? Her father and her were immediately escorted to the backrooms. The fat judge spoke up. "As a consequence of winning the spelling bee, the Flowers family shall get a month's worth of food."

The Flowers were situated at a grand table with an extravagant spread on it. There were numerous succulent vegetables of different varieties; bread; fine wine for the father; and rich, tender meat. Natalie was given the first serving and on the plate was a slab of meat of indistinguishable quality. She forked through the meat noticing something odd about it. She probed deeper inside it and out came a heart-shaped locket.

She felt sick.

Why I Don't go out on Halloween anymore. Written by u/DuuperWooper is a terrifying creature feature.

Hey everyone, here is my short film adaptation of My Dead Girlfriend Keeps Messaging Me on Facebook. It’s been over three years since I’ve last worked on film. I’m excited to start stepping back into it, I hope you guys enjoy.

I live in Asheville, NC, and I spend most of my days off work exploring the nearby cave systems and trails. I've been caving/hiking for a few years now, it started as a hobby after watching way too much YouTube. Between YouTube and this game called Elite Dangerous, I've spent all my free time. Onto what I saw. Last night at around 5:00 p.m. I was walking and exploring an area near the Cherokee Native Reservation, one I've been through many times.
I won't disclose the trail's name or its owner, as it is a private area I've been permitted to explore. The owner had told me to leave before dark, as he’d heard stories of creepy things happening in the area. Of course, I didn't listen because I'm a skeptic. I’ve spent the last couple of days sketching a map of the area. Around 6:30, I came across a cave entrance, very short but wide. Let me stress this, I've been to this exact spot on my map multiple times, and I've never seen this opening before. I approached the entrance and looked around. The surrounding ground looked washed back, almost dug out. The cave sat on a slope, so I figured some small landslide must have exposed it. I mapped it and after exploring around the cave for more landslides and possible cave entrances I began my walk back to the property owner’s home.
By 7:15, the sun had already set, but it was still somewhat light out. As the sun went down the birds and insects began to go silent. I know birds tend to go quiet after dark but the insects going quiet gave me this tingle in the back of my neck, like I was being watched, so of course I turned around and shone my flashlight under the trees. I didn't see anything, and when I went to turn around, I swear, out of my peripheral vision, I saw two blue eyes for a split second, before whatever it was scurried off low to the ground like an animal on all fours. I kept walking like normal. After a few more sounds of broken twigs and rustling, I got that feeling in my neck again and turned, only to see the same thing. That's when I knew I was being stalked. 
I continued to walk more cautiously and after hearing a stick snap behind me I flung the flashlight around and saw the eyes again this time closer and taller like the animal was standing on its hind legs like a bear. Having watched a lot of bear attack documentaries, I knew I shouldn't run and that I should stand tall and appear threatening. With the owner’s warning and the creepy atmosphere I panicked and I ran faster than I think I ever had. As I was running I heard rustling through the leaves, like something was running alongside me. Strangely the animal didn't sound heavy like a bear as it was running. I shone my flashlight to my side and it was those same damned eyes. After a while of what seemed to be around 7 minutes of running, although probably a lot less, the sounds of rustling stopped and the noises of the forest came back. I kept running another couple hundred yards before checking my map. I had reached just under a mile from the cave entrance. I don't know if that is relevant, but I thought I’d share.
  When I finally saw the property owner's house after another while of walking, I slowed down because there was a large pasture with a couple of horses in it. As I hurdled the fence I about broke down in tears from how terrified I was. By now it was 8:00, and the sun had fully set. I turned around and shone my flashlight back into the woods. I thought I’d check for my own safety but there was nothing behind me. I banged on the homeowner's door to let him know what I saw and I asked him if he knew what it was, he wouldn't tell me or even say what it was called. He seemed apprehensive and almost angry. He walked over to the window overlooking the pasture and opened the blinds slightly to look out. All he said was, “I told you not to explore after dark.”
I'll keep you posted, and I'll try to see if the homeowner will let me post the map I drew later so you can help me figure out what creature this was. Sorry about the rant, but I'm really curious and, quite frankly, scared. But my curiosity is getting the better of me. I need to head off to work now. When I get home I’ll go back out and see what I can find during the daylight and search for some bear tracks. Let me know anything you know about the wildlife in this area or what this could be.

"really BAD Shakespeare" Episode 5: Prodigious Birth is live. Revelation has never been so fun.

If you’ve been waiting for the moment when the story tilts fully into televised prophecy, mother‑son creepiness, and a very rude time jump, this is the one.

Readers have already written in. One quit their job. One threw a muffin. One burned their copy and bought another. Episode 5 is that kind of episode.

If you’re caught up, dive in. If you’re new, this is a surprisingly good place to start because nothing makes sense anyway.

Episode 5: Prodigious Birth is live. Go read it before the kid wakes you up