Top Rated Creepypastas of This Week

“Satan’s Fall”

The devil on the fiery porch. He was back again that year, the same as he had been for five years running, keeping the majority of Trick or Treaters behind an imaginary line of uneasiness drawn at the edge of the curb with his Hell-red grin and burning cauldrons. It was a scene from Faust, only this was no play; this was my neighborhood.

It wasn’t just kids who lingered apprehensively in the street, but parents as well. In a place where the definition of Halloween was more like cardboard skeletons and plastic jack-o-lanterns, a guy with a penchant for fire and pitchforks could be extraordinarily scary. Really young children were hurried past the residence altogether via lawns on the opposite side of the street, hopefully distracted by candy long enough to save them from the psyche-scarring nightmares certain to result from even the smallest glimpse of him. This left only the few – the brave – to make the journey and collect one of the candy bars given out by the devil basking in the red glow of the doorway.

Trick or Treating in the 1970’s wasn’t the flirt with death that it can be today. At that time, in most suburban settings, people lived in the same house for years and made the effort to get to know their neighbors and their neighbor’s children.…

I Found You

My eyes struggle to open.

I blink several times, trying to take in my surroundings. A stark white ceiling looms above me. Even from a distance, I can make out the little cracks that scour the surface; hundreds of tiny passages into darkness. Shifting around a bit, I feel the starchy sheets beneath my outstretched hands. They feel stale and unwashed. Unsurprisingly, the rigid mattress beneath me is no more comforting.

I slowly lean up and glance around the room. It’s dimly lit – a single desk lamp rests on a table in the far corner. A few books are strewn across the table’s surface, none of which are recognizable from where I’m sitting. The table looks worn down, as if it’s been there for decades. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the wall next to me. Its covered in black etches and scribbles. My eyes wander across the remaining walls, but I soon look away. The same markings enshroud the entire room.

I begin to sift through my memories, trying to remember what could possibly bring to me to such a place. But, to my horror, I can recall nothing. Scarce images float to the surface, yet nothing concrete enough to be considered sensible.…

Leo

Doctor Avraham Strauss was confused. In a moment of clarity, he questioned why and how he had come to be walking down this particular corridor, in this castle, at this precise time. Red corridor, Colditz Castle, the middle of winter 1942. How could he, as a Jew, even have considered assisting the Nazis in this horrifying experiment? Yet, he could justify it using the fact that no one else would have given him the support or funding for his research. Yes, to the average person it might seem like a crime against nature, but he knew better. He was creating new life. A new race, a new species for whom war and violence would no longer be necessary.

The circumstances of where his laboratory had been located were unfortunate. Schloss Colditz had been appropriated by the Germans and put to use as a high security prisoner-of-war camp for officers who had become security or escape risks or who were regarded as particularly dangerous. Since the castle was situated on a rocky outcrop above the River Mulde, the Germans believed it to be an ideal site for a high security prison.

The larger outer court known as the Kommandantur, had only two exits and housed a large German garrison.…

You Look Like My Son

My eyes are in a ferverous affair with the clock, and my focus is none the wiser. The police dispatcher is pleading for me to humor her inquiries, if for no reason other than to keep my consciousness afloat. It is so late, and today has been so challenging. Nevertheless, I’ll gratify her with my story, because I am really in no mood to tell it again later.

Mariam Cliffington happened into our photo center again today. These visits are becoming relentless, as are the innumerable poorly Photoshopped images on her SanDisk flash drive. Every day it’s the same process. She perches at our photo Kiosk, orders small batches of 5×7 and 4×6 photos, and crones over the photo printer as it squeals its mechanical protests. The unfortunate photo specialist on duty is then scolded by dear old Mariam, as “the color in my son’s face is coming out too pale” and “my granddaughter’s dress looks much too washed out” becomes as recitable as the Lord’s Prayer. The project is then gifted to me, as I am the only one who receives her limited mercy. This is due in part because I am the only one in the store qualified as a professional photo editor.…

Nyctophilia

I’ve always loved the dark.

It feels warm and welcoming. Like a mask, hiding all the stress and emotion that the daylight shows so explicitly and replacing them with a sensuous feeling. The dark reveals your true nature and abolishes the facade you play during the daytime.

Yes. The dark is good. You can be yourself in the dark and not feel judged or threatened all the while by being yourself.

That’s why I love the night so much. You can just relax in the blackness, surrounded by nothing but shadow. Allowing the dark to overcome your senses and numb them down until you feel nothing at all but complete weightlessness.

Then, when sleep finally takes control, you are thrusted into even deeper darkness. Infinite darkness. Just black empty space. An endless void your mind creates to help you drift off into unconsciousness.

But why? Why is it always black? Have you ever thought about that? Whenever we close our eyes, we are met with black. But why?

You don’t notice it, do you? You don’t think about it. It’s just there. Like breathing, blinking. After a while your subconscious just accepts that when we close our eyes, we see darkness.…

The Magician’s Game

The audience laughed as the young man in the top hat smiled. The trick he had just completed had apparently been more than enough to please the crowd. As the man slowly walked away from the almost blindly bright spotlight, he kept his face focused on the crowd, continuing to smile.

He attempted to focus on specific members, one being a teenager who appeared to be recording the whole thing on his phone, another being a pretty blond girl with particularly lovely blue eyes. Tom realized that this wasn’t helping when he almost tripped on his own feet, and he went back to just smiling and focusing his effort on leaving the stage.

After a few moments, the magician was out of the audience’s sight.

Immediately, he stopped grinning and went to his nearby dressing room.

Once the magician had opened the door, he ducked under the doorway and walked inside the cramped room. Closing the door, he finally let out a sigh. After years of doing the same acts, it was finally starting to tire him out. At this point, he collapsed against the door and sat down for several minutes, thinking.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knocking at the door.…

Hollow

I don’t know what’s worse, the screams that ended a few weeks ago, or the silence that has fallen since then. Before, I felt like everything should be done to help others. Now, in my self-reflection, I don’t know anymore.

It was like any other day in the city. Sunny, crowded, and busy. I was walking to work at a large national bank, where I recently began an internship. I remember the day well because, besides the obvious fact that the world ended on this day, I had finally convinced myself to talk to the cute secretary across the hall from me. Things just seemed to be going my way that day. I walked to work every day, and the flow of traffic was straight my way. That’s when the alarms sounded.

There was a mass panic, as is expected. I watched as thousands of people ran in hysteria, all going absolutely nowhere. Some of the people ran for the subways, anything deep in the ground. There’s only so many places to go, and as I stated before, people weren’t getting very far. The only option I really had was to follow all those going into the subways. There were some military personnel in the corridor instructing us down the tunnel, wearing full military gas suits like they were equipped for some sort of bio-air attack.…

The Gift

A true (?) story.

When it all began, I was a lonely seventh grader at a large public school.  I had few friends there, and even these “friends” of mine bullied and mistreated me more often then not.  So I made my friends at church.  At this point in my life, I was deeply religious, even at such a young age.  I prayed and read the Bible daily, and my family regularly attended church.  However, no matter how much effort I put into my religion, I always felt a great distance between me and God.  I could spend all day praying, but every time I tried, I still felt like I was talking to the wall.  How could I know He was there at all if I couldn’t see Him, couldn’t hear Him, couldn’t feel Him?

But my father – oh, he could hear God just fine.  I knew because he had seen them – seen the Angels.

My father and my mother, still married at this time, disagreed upon many issues, especially religious ones.  So as the tension between them grew, my father turned to other sources of fulfillment.  He began taking long walks each day, during which he would spend hours praying. …

Soundless

Ever since I can remember I have been able to see things that others cannot. I still remember the days of my infancy when I would, for the first time, sleep in my own bed, in my own room, and how the shadows of unknown beings would haunt my room. Or perhaps my head? All I know is that I saw things, and that, at least to me, these things were as real as the other things that other people were able too see and touch.

I can still play in my memory the ominous events. How I pointlessly attempted to sleep as the door of my wardrobe opened slowly, and always stopped just before I could be able to see what pushed it open, although it was already hard enough to see with one eye barely open just to be aware in case that whatever hid behind the door decided to come out.

As I grew older I came closer in contact with these things and I started to be able to sense them, feel them, and even smell them. The odor was not pleasant, it was a rotten smell, maybe even came close to smell like death itself. As time passed and I got more used to these beings, my senses were more effective, I could see everything, sense everything, smell everything, and be able to differentiate what was one of these beings, and what was something else shared with the rest of the people around me.…

Knock

We all have that one story, don’t we? The one you grow up thinking about, but never actually grow the balls to tell anyone. Well this is my story. I don’t know what I’m hoping to accomplish by telling you. Maybe I’m looking for someone to tell me that I’m not insane, or maybe once I put it on paper it will…Hell, I don’t know. Just someone read this…just please.

Let me give you a little background. Twenty years ago when I was eight years old, still living with my mom. My friend Dave and I decided that we would brave “The House”. Now, The House was an abandoned two story home, that had been empty going on ten years, save for the occasional drug abuser that would sleep in it. However that’s not what made this particular house special. The standing rumor is what made it interesting.

For as long as I can remember adults in my neighborhood had told us, the children, that it was haunted. I’m sure it was just their way of getting us not to play in it though. Regardless, because of that, the house had a sort of ominous aura that hung around it. Just looking at that decaying building would give you the shivers.…

Leave Feedback / Report Glitch