Top Rated Creepypastas of This Week

Hidden Game

The feeling of a lingering presence during solitary moments…

Everybody gets that feeling. I’m sure you have too. What you probably haven’t done is try to explain its occurrence.

See, here’s the thing: I had this feeling a few nights ago when I was in my room trying to go to sleep. I laid down, curled, facing the wall which my bed is positioned next to. I slowly, but surely, felt something stand behind me, as everybody does at some point in their lives. It felt like it was lording over me and staring at me to no end.

The funny thing about the human psychology is that it absolutely HATES unknown things, which would be why we try come up with an explanation for seemingly enigmatic events. So, being the creative wizard that it is, my brain tried to associate this figure with a face. Unfortunately I was somewhat terrified so my brain, as any brain would, decided to combine the figure and the sense of fear together to give the figure a face that would warrant such fear.

The brain can’t create faces so it copies and pastes any face you’ve see from anywhere. But given this context, it’d usually the most nightmare-inducing face you’ve ever seen.…

The Stitcher

It was a cold winters afternoon, soft flurries of snow were gathering on the boys window sill, much of it piling in a clump on his timbered bedroom floor, unfortunately his window panes, which were designed to keep him from catching a flu, had been shattered.

He wore a cheap-looking, dark blue hoodie, except, it wasn’t much of a ‘hoodie’ because the sleeves had been cut short fraying slightly at the ends, and the actual hood was absent, his mother had bought this for him from the second-hand store which explained alot. Gray tinted skinny jeans concealed his thin legs and dark navy blue colored sneakers covered his feet. The boy had hazel brown eyes, with the same shaded hair.

“Almost done” he whispered to the small doll sitting patiently on his desk.

He gave a long weary sigh, then delicately slid the tip of his sewing needle through its frayed fabric. The boy continued the careful motion, looping the thread in circles down its exposed side, watching as the fabric was forced together, holding all the stuffing perfectly in place. Tying a small knot completed his work, and he placed the doll down in-front of him.

Next to the figure rested another, with long threads of brown silk for hair and an untidy grey dress.…

Tap… Tap… Tap…

Ever had a fear of monsters under your bed? Like you could have sworn you saw what seemed to be a shadow moving down there, or freaked out when you heard a noise under the bed and was scared to look?

I don’t expect anybody to believe me on this, nor do I care anymore. I’ve told this to anyone and everyone I’ve ever known but none believed…not even my best friend. Not even my therapist. At this point I’ve given up, and just tell this as a scary story to my “friends”, and would like to show it to the world. For the record, yes, this has happened to me. Believe if you want to.

So it started back when I was about six years old. My family had moved to a new house in a new neighborhood, but still close enough to my friends. I still slept with my parents at that age and was horribly scared to sleep alone. On restless nights, I had a habit of looking at the closet, seeing the clothes hanged, and imagining the silhouettes of those clothes forming monsters. Sometimes it looked like dark eyes watching me, sometimes just scary shadows. I would think anything was scary at night.…


“So tell me Mr. Harold, what ha-..”

“M-Marcus is fine..” The psychologist was interrupted by the shaken man in the seat before him. He was shaking, head pointed towards the floor, staring into space with wide eyes as his clammy sweaty palms were clasped together tightly.

“Ok, Marcus then. Can you tell me what happened on the night of April 23rd, 2014?”
The psychologist finished his sentence and fixed his gaze on Marcus. Studying his body language.

“I… As much as I r-really dont want to.. I-I have to..” He stuttered.

“Talking about it is the only way we can help you get through it.” The therapist stated.

“Please don’t phrase it that way doctor.” Marcus directed his gaze into the eyes of the psychologist as he spoke.

“Oh..uh..” The doc cleared his throat and apologised before prompting him once more to continue.

“I had j-just clocked out at work when my phone rang.. My initial reaction was well.. Who the fuck would be calling me at 2AM? I checked my blackberry and saw my wife was calling from the house phone. Or at least.. That’s what I assumed..” He paused for a moment.

The psychologist looked up from his trance of constant note taking and questioned “is something wrong?”


Where Bad Kids Go

I must have been six or seven when I lived in Lebanon. The country was ravaged by war at the time, and murders were common and frequent. I remember during a particularly vicious era, when the bombings rarely stopped, I would stay at home sitting in front of my television watching a very, very strange show.

It was a kids’ show that lasted about 30 minutes and contained strange and sinister images. To this day I believe it was a thinly veiled attempt on the part of the media to use scare tactics to keep kids in place, because the moral of every episode revolved around very uptight ideologies: stuff like, “bad kids stay up late,” “bad kids have their hands under the covers when they sleep,” and “bad kids steal food from the fridge at night.”

It was very weird, and in Arabic to top it off. I didn’t understand much of it, but for the most part the images were very graphic and comprehensive. The thing that stuck with me the most, however, was the closing scene. It remained much the same in every episode. The camera would zoom in on an old, rusted, closed door. As it got closer to the door, strange and sometimes even agonizing screams would become more audible.…

Dragon’s Triangle

Min-Jun awoke, gasping for air as he flailed in the shallow water. His vision blurred by the salt water, he flung himself ashore, and lay face first in the sand. He swabbed away the water from his eyes and attempted to open them. His eyelids fluttered until he finally was able to keep them pried. Min-Jun looked around at his surroundings.

He was on a beach, located on what appeared to be a large, tropical island. Fifty yards up, stood a green, luscious jungle. There was something strange about this jungle. Something odd, that gave Min-Jun an unsettling feeling. It looked like a normal jungle would, only it had an uneasy stillness to it. There were no birds cawing, monkeys howling, or even shuffling in the undergrowth. The jungle sat in utter silence. The entire island was domed under a thick layer of fog. Min-Jun wiped his eyes and looked down the beach, which seemed to stretch on for miles, to see something that had only appeared to him in his nightmares.

Bodies of men and women were strewn about, lying in the wet sand, limp and lifeless. Sailors, fishermen, soldiers, and pilots alike were piled along the coast. Along with the dead, was the wreckage of planes and boats.…

Purple Skies

In the United States of America, in the state of Ohio, about forty-five minutes North West of Cincinnati, there is a large, but sparsely populated farming community known as Oregonia. Some of you who have an interest in motorcycles may have heard of it before, as the community is famous for its hills. So famous, it holds the annual “Devils Staircase Hill Climb,” where motorcyclists ride their bikes up a very steep hill hill. It’s a lot more fun than it sounds, and it brings in a lot of money and excitement to what is normally a very boring area.

These hills are steep, and they are many. Within these valleys you will find abandoned houses, mines, caves, and a lot of wild game. Every child who grows up in Oregonia will become familiar with these hills, as they will have nothing better to do than walk them and explore. But as every child in Oregonia knows, these valleys are dangerous. And if there’s something you should never, never do in Oregonia, it isn’t walk the waterfront with a fat wallet, or badmouth Ralph J. Stolle. It’s that you never walk the valleys during a purple sky.

Purple skies mean different things.…

Baboon Lane

In the United States of America, in the state of Ohio, about forty-five minutes North West of Cincinnati, there is a large, but sparsely populated farming community known as Oregonia. Some of you who have an interest in Motorcycles may have heard of it before, as the community is famous for its hills and holds the annual “Devil’s Staircase Hill Climb”, where motorcyclists ride their bikes up a very steep hill. It’s a lot more fun than it sounds, and it brings in a lot of money and excitement to what is normally a very boring area.

Oregonia is actually a pretty interesting place for being so small and secluded. The guy who invented pop tabs, the thing on top of soda cans that open them, lived there. He was an industrialist by the name of Ralph J. Stolle. There were also a few interesting experiments held at the farm; it was one of the first to try and breed “beefalo”, Cattle/Buffalo hybrids that were supposed to be healthier, reproduce faster, stuff like that. This story is about a similar experiment.

If any of you pass through Oregonia, you can confirm this story with the locals, but you’ll have to the press them somewhat.…

To Care For is to Curse

They are here, banging on doors, windows, pipes, walls, vents. They have nowhere else to go, no one else to torture, their only way left to get to me is to torture me slowly, until I cannot wait for death to release me, as I am sure they will do. I have very little time to type this, so let me explain as quickly as possible.

Since I was a kid, around 9 or 10, I was able to hear them. They swarm around the people I care for, and ensure I can’t get too close. Anytime I tried to hug my mother, a noise that sounded like a cross between feedback and a low humming noise would fill my brain and make me want to claw my eyes out. I would screech and sob and pound my head on the wall or table.

At first, my mother thought I had some sort of disorder, or, one that could be diagnosed, at least. I was not fond of my psychiatrist, the name of whom I will omit, so they left him alone. After no one could find anything wrong with me, my mother began to conclude that I hated her because I would cry and screech whenever she came near me.…

The Love Shack, 1606

Since around 1999, I’ve lived across the street from an old sawmill. It’s sort of assumed that the family who still own and operate the mill have owned the hundred or so acres it sits on since the beginning of time. The owner’s sons, now into their 30’s, have always sort of been “wild” boys. They like old muscle cars, dirt bikes, fireworks, things like that. They even built part of the largely-unused land behind the sawmill proper into a motocross track, just building up the dirt to make ramps, etc. The parties were endless when my family first moved across the street, and while this was bizarre to us, coming from a mundane Southern Ohio background, I totally dove right in. Chris was the youngest of three brothers born to their old-fashioned, religious parents who had been part of the town, once again, since the beginning of time as far as most were concerned, and who didn’t necessarily approve of the craziness, but didn’t have it in them to put a stop to it, or so we thought. Chris was fresh out of the hospital after breaking his back jumping an ATV, and this is when I learned just how far back their family went.…

Leave Feedback / Report Glitch