File :-(, x, )
Creepy Pasta Anonymous
It's that time again, /b/
>> anonymoose !ilYNNEFUz.
Every child fears under their bed. If they don’t, they fear the closet, or maybe that little crack in the almost closed door.

Scientists know that children are more perceptive, they see things adults don’t. They aren’t yet tethered into only accepting what society wants them to accept. They see what is truly there.

They see the monsters.

If you were to borrow a child’s eyes and see through them for a night, you would go insane. To be able to see what you only dimly remember, burrowing into your covers while wearing those train pajamas, hoping to a God you can barely comprehend that “it” doesn’t see you back…would drive an adult crazy. Because Adults forget the rules.

1) Cover yourself. If you can’t see it, it can’t see you. Even if it makes it harder to breathe.

2) Don’t make a noise. Every whimper can lead to destruction.

3) Don’t move. It attracts their attention.

4) Only light can make them go away. Bright light. Flashlights make it worse.

Teens are caught in the middle. They still feel what’s there, but they cannot see… and they forget the rules….

Why do you think there are so many insomniacs typing at their computers, subconsciously praying the light from their monitor will be enough to keep them away?

It’s not. Now look behind you with a child’s eyes and try not to scream.
>> anonymoose !ilYNNEFUz.
Many classic horror icons, such as Geger's Xenomorphs, Silent Hill's Pyramid Head, and other disturbing creatures, share common characteristics; Pale skin, dark, sunken eyes, elongated faces, sharp teeth, and the like.
These images inspire horror and revulsion in many, and with good reason. The characteristics shared by these faces are imprinted in the human mind.
Many things frighten humans instinctively. The fear is natural, and does not need to be reinforced in order to terrify. The fears are species-wide, stemming from dark times in the past when lightning could mean the burning of your tree or home, thunder could be the approaching gallops of a stampede, predators could hide in darkness, and heights could make poor footing lethal.
The question you have to ask yourself is this:
What happened, deep in the hidden eras before history began, that could affect the entire human race so evenly as to give the entire species a deep, instinctual, and lasting fear of pale beings with dark, sunken eyes, razor sharp teeth, and elongated faces?

... Just be careful out there.
>> anonymoose !ilYNNEFUz.
The best one is next
>> anonymoose !ilYNNEFUz.
When you are in New York go into a McDonalds, any McDonalds, order a normal menu item and say yes to everything that the cashier asks except if he/she asks if you want to eat it here. You will probably end up with a Supersize menu and a Coke, fries and something else like a McFlurry. Pay for the food you bought, leave a dollar extra. Now go to Central Park. Don't speak to anyone, don't answer anything. Sit on a bench far from everything. Start eating slowly. Look around every 30-40 seconds to see if anything comes. When your meal is finished drink the coke and throw your trash in the nearest trashcan.

You are no longer hungry and won't be hungry for the next six hours.
>> Anonymous
>>90873759
Xenomorphs (the aliens from the Alien franchise) don't have pale fucking skin.
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
>> Anonymous
>>90874035
I lol'd
>> Anonymous
>>90873651
This is why I'm glad I go to sleep with a full suit of armour.
>> Anonymous
>>90874035
Except for the fact that I hate McDondald's
>> Anonymous
>>90873443
What's the sauce on that picture?
>> Anonymous
damn it.... fail
>> anonymoose !ilYNNEFUz.
>>90874161
well that is fucking obvious

but Pyramid Head has pale skin, does he not?
though he may not have sharp teeth, the Xenomorph does.
>> Anonymous
While honeymooning in Maine, my wife and I stopped in the picturesque town of Boothbay on a particularly dreary and rainy day. Since our planned picnic was out of the question, we sought shelter in a dilapidated little antique store near the harbour. While my wife inspected the large chests and side tables near the door, I eagerly examined the antique tools and seafaring equipment inside the glass sales counter at the back. Being a collector of optics and mariner’s instruments, I hoped to find a sextant, or perhaps an old leather-bound telescope.
>> fuck you guys, now i won't be able to sleep tonight butthurt slavfag !!thA5VFG6yAq
     File :-(, x)
Item #: SCP-173

Object class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: Item SCP-173 is to be kept in a locked container at all times. When personnel must enter SCP-173's container, no fewer than 3 may enter at any time and the door is to be relocked behind them. At all times, two persons must maintain direct eye contact with SCP-173 until all personnel have vacated and relocked the container.

Description: Moved to Site19 1993. Origin is as of yet unknown. It is constructed from concrete and rebar with traces of Krylon brand spray paint. SCP-173 is animate and extremely hostile. The object cannot move while within a direct line of sight. Line of sight must not be broken at any time with SCP-173. Personnel assigned to enter container are instructed to alert one another before blinking. Object is reported to attack by snapping the neck at the base of the skull, or by strangulation. In the event of an attack, personnel are to observe Class 4 hazardous object containment procedures.

Personnel report sounds of scraping stone originating from within the container when no one is present inside. This is considered normal, and any change in this behaviour should be reported to the acting HMCL supervisor on duty.

The reddish brown substance on the floor is a combination of feces and blood. Origin of these materials is unknown. The enclosure must be cleaned on a bi-weekly basis.
>> Anonymous
>>90874309

Holy Jesus NAMEFAG FAIL.
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
i'm surprised no one has posted this creepy horse yet! i don't find i that creepy but others…sure…d…

._.

o_o

0_0

O_O

>> Anonymous
>>90874723
A particularly interesting piece caught my eye. It appeared to be a heavy brass flashlight, bearing a worn brown patina but remarkably modern in design. I asked the shopkeeper, but he could only tell me it was found in the same old sailor’s chest as several of the compasses and the sextant also on display. He inquired as to whether I would like to purchase it for five dollars, or perhaps have it for free. “It’s worthless to me, nobody wants it.” When I remarked about the price, he sighed wearily, and then reached into the cabinet and retrieved it for me.

“Here, see for yerself, feller.”
>> Anonymous
>>90873443
i dont get op pic
>> Anonymous
>>90874784
good call, i didn't notice that lmao.
>> Anonymous
>>90873651
Lol, that scared the shit of me.
>> Anonymous
>>90874264

FUCK.
>> Anonymous
Do not understand.

Tired man, reporting in.
>> Anonymous
>>90874889
The craftsmanship was wonderful—quite durable and apparently hand-made, perhaps originating from somewhere in Europe. Worn lettering indicated it might be German, or perhaps Austrian, in origin. I twisted the bulb housing and a weak red beam swept out. Poking it into a dark corner of the shop, I was greeted with fantastic monotone swirls, moving and entwining with each other like a pit of eels. As I stared further into this unusual projector-kaleidescope, my fanciful mind invented ghoulish faces and sinuous, gnarled tendrils.

Shutting the device off, I turned excitedly to the shopkeeper. “Fantastic!” I said. “It must have an oil filter of sorts in front of the lens! I have two Victorian kalediscopes, but none that are illuminated like this.”
>> Anonymous
>>90874790
I think it's sort of cute lol.
>> anonymoose !ilYNNEFUz.
>>90874780
holy shit

i lost the link for that stuff, care to divulge the link?
>> Anonymous
>>90874905
new fag oh and MOAR!!!
>> Anonymous
>>90874035

lol'ed
>> Anonymous
“You don’t get it, do you? Nobody gets it. They all come back to return it after a while.” The shopkeeper leaned on the counter and I could see that he was breathing heavily and perspiring. “They all think it’s some sort of trick… till they start seeing it when the light’s off.”

“That ain’t no projection, mister. That… damned thing, that light… it ain’t makin’ up those creatures. It’s just lettin’ your eyes see what’s already there.”

HOPE YOU LIKE!!!
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
>> Anonymous
>>90874780
Reminds me of Blink. Hella creepy Doctor Who episode.
>> Anonymous
>>90874723

Well there's your problem. You were in Maine.
>> butthurt slavfag !!thA5VFG6yAq
>>90875260
http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/
>> Anonymous !unBtkgCr..
holy shit it's been a while since i've seen one of these threads. this is why i used to love /b/
>> Anonymous
Szomorú Vasárnap, or Gloomy Sunday in English, is a hit song written in 1933 by Hungarian composer Rezs? Seress. It’s more commonly known as the Hungarian Suicide song because of hundreds (if not thousands) of suicides that had been inspired by listening to it. The song itself has been has been covered several times, most famously by Billie Holiday, and for the most part is considered an urban legend and a brilliant marketing campaign.

The version that reached radio waves, however, is not the version that was originally written. Rezs? Seress originally wrote the song in order to woo his girlfriend, who had recently left him. The song succeeded in bringing them back together for a short time, before she jumped from his apartment window. Rezs? had been out at the time. His girlfriend left a note for him—”Szomorú Vasárnap.” The song was changed before release. Rezs? Seress himself committed suicide in 1969, jumping out of his window in very much the same manner his girlfriend did.
>> Anonymous
gb2 /x/
>> ­
     File :-(, x)
>> Anonymous
It’s 3AM and you’ve been up all night on a horror binge. You’ve watched your favorite horrors movies, read your favorite scary stories, and even attempted the old “Bloody Mary” trick in your mirror. You stretch and yawn, deciding now is about the time to hit the hay, so you move into your bedroom and lay down to sleep.

After awhile, however, you realize that you can’t get the images of some of the fictional creatures you saw on your TV out of your head. “Meh… I’m going to hate myself for this tomorrow,” You say aloud as you flick on your bedroom lamp, knowing that having a nightlight used to help get rid of your nightmares as a little kid. Within minutes you’re close to sleep, snuggled up comfortably under the blankets with your eyes closed and more pleasant thoughts on your mind.

…That is, until you detect something moving in front of the light, casting a shadow over you. You blink, beginning to turn towards the lamp before a rotting hand grabs hold of your shoulder. “Thanks for turning on the light; I wouldn’t have been able to find you in that darkness.”
>> Anonymous
>>90874309

god fucking damn could you possibly be any more obvious? srs just an hero now for fucks sake
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
i actually found this doll in the woods a few years ago and thought it was fucking creepy, so i took it home, but i didn't have a single night of sleep that didn't end in the worst nightmares of my life. it was probably just me freaking myself out, but the next time i went for a hike, i took it with and left it where i found it and took this picture... it hasn't fucked me up for life, but ive been hiking on that trail for a few years now and ive seen it put back in that spot and then taken four or five times now. very creepy.
>> Anonymous
>>90876119
rape?
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
>> Anonymous
ima get sum food, wait for me!
>> Anonymous
A young girl walking home from school found a small pile of Polaroid photos lying in the gutter. There were twenty in all, neatly wrapped in a rubber band. She picked them up, and as she walked she started to browse. The first photo was that of a ghostly white man on a black background, standing just far enough away from the camera that she couldn’t make out his features. The girl slid the photo to the back of the stack and looked at the next one. The photo was of the same man now standing a bit closer. The girl flipped through the next several photos quickly. With each one the man in the picture came a bit closer and his features were a bit clearer. Turning the last corner to her house, the girl noticed that the man in the photos seems to be looking at her even when she moved the stack from side to side. It frightened her, but she kept flipping them over, one by one. By the nineteenth picture, the man was so close his face completely filled the frame. His expression was the most horrifying the girl had ever seen. Walking up the driveway, she turned to the last photo. This time, instead of an image, there were two words: “Close enough.” Hearing a scream, the girl’s brother rushed to the door and opened it. All he saw was a pile of photographs lying on the doorstep. The top one looked like an extremely pale version of his sister, but she was standing too far back for him to be sure.
>> Anonymous
If you are the type who eats out regularly, one day a stranger might join you at the table. This stranger will always appear to be of your age and sex, and he (if it is a he) will only appear if you are alone. No matter what style of restaurant it is, he will always be carrying his own plate of food.

After a few seconds, he will look directly at you and say, “You seem like an interesting person. May I know you better?” Say yes, and he will begin to ask you questions about yourself in between bites. These questions will be innocuous enough at first: what your name is, what you do for a living, and so forth, but should you open your mouth to answer, you will be forced to tell the truth, even if you do not consciously know what the truth is. Remain silent, and the stranger will scowl at you, pick up his plate, and leave. You will never see him again. If you do indulge his questions, however, they will grow darker and darker as the food leaves his plate, and it will become harder and harder to resist answering. Do not attempt to leave the table before he does under any circumstances.

When his plate is clean, he will stand up to leave, but not before asking you one last, irresistible question: “What would drive you to take your own life?” You will instantly be aware that you will be able to lie in response to this one question, and I suggest you do, for whatever you describe will come to pass within the week. Those who are canny may use this chat to gain whatever they desire, but know that if the happenstance you name does not drive you to suicide, the stranger will start guessing as to what will. And consider how much he now knows about you.
>> Anonymous
MOAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
>> Anonymous
In the small town of Stull, Kansas, there once stood an old one room chapel on top of a hill, surrounded by graves. Beside the church was a cellar that was very difficult to find, as its doors had grass grown upon them. In front of it church was great tree that was always bare. None of the towns members could recall ever having seen a leaf upon its branches.

In the towns earliest years, well before the civil war, there were several farming families that lived there. The minister’s daughter had fallen madly in love with a boy from nearby, but had her heart broken when that young man was discovered to have impregnated a certain flirtatious townsgirl. The two were married, and all the while the reverend’s daughter saw them, happy together, and her hatred brewed until after 9 months of painful endurance, that despise boiled over. Shortly after the young couples child was born the minister’s daughter went to their house.
>> Anonymous
They greeted her cheerfully but noticed, all too late, how she eyed the child blood-thirstily. She slit the throats of those two who’d made her life so miserable and then dragged their bodies, along with the newborn child, up the hill to the church. She put the bodies in the cellar and left the baby there, between their bodies, to starve to death. She locked the cellar shut and hung herself on the tree in front of the church. The bodies in the cellar were not found for three weeks.

From that day on leaves never grew on that tree. If you walk the graveyard late at night you can just hear the sound of a baby’s chilling cry. The towns people burnt down the tree many years ago, in the hopes of putting the ministers daughter’s spirit to rest. And more recently the church collapsed onto itself, burying the already difficult to find cellar.

Many have looked for its doors, but the few who have found them and ventured beneath its depths have seldom returned, with the exception of a few who came back to the sunlight after 3 weeks beneath- starved nearly to death and covered in blood that was not their own.
>> Anonymous
everyone want moar?
>> Anonymous
yes plx
>> Anonymous
It's early morning. The sun won't be up for another couple of hours. You're fast asleep in bed, lost in a dream, when the phone rings. Rather than waking up, you roll over and cover your head with a pillow.
Hours pass. The sun rises.

The phone is ringing.

When you wake up, your alarm clock is blaring and the phone is ringing. By the time you will yourself to turn the alarm off, the phone has stopped ringing. You realize that it's been ringing all morning.
You slide out of bed and press the blinking red button on your phone as you stumble into the bathroom. The phone beeps, followed by the friendly, electronic voice.

Hello. You have six hundred and sixty-six new messages. Message one. The phone beeps again, and you're not prepared for what comes next.

Screaming.

You spin around, thinking that she's standing right behind you. There's pure terror in her screams, accompanied by other disturbing noises. You stand there, horrified, for about ten seconds. Screaming gives way to hysterical, garbled crying before dying out with the sounds of spilling meat and tearing flesh.

The phone beeps again. You're shaking.

Message two.
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
I’m about to do a very stupid thing.

I know it’s stupid. I know it. But I don’t think I have a choice anymore. And I have to do it now, while I have the nerve and the will and while my hands are still steady.

I’m sick. I’ve always been sick. Some days are better than others. When I was young my parents prayed that it might just be a precursor of the onset of epilepsy, but the seizures never came. I just… can’t trust myself.

I see things. On some days, I can hear them and smell them too. I should say that I used to see them. After being on every possible combination of pills three doctors could come up with, I thought we’d finally found the right chemical key for my misfiring brain. It’s been six years of stability and relative normalcy, trading a halfway house for a tiny studio apartment, a collection of mostly tolerable side-effects, and a steady job. I realize this probably sounds dull for most people, but I cherished every moment of that achingly simple monotony.

It went bad all at once
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
amidoinitrite?
>> Anonymous
moar plzzzzz
>> HyperStatic
>>90879228
Yes.. MOAR
>> Anonymous
>>90879146
Friday morning. I awake from the first dream I’ve had in years, a vivid phantasmagoria of colors and sounds, and begrudgingly leave my perfect and sterile clean apartment for the short walk to work.

I notice it as soon as the elevator opens, the unearthly stillness and silence in the heavy air. The front door of the complex is hanging open, unlocked and swinging gently, the faintest trace of smoke drifting inward in the damp breeze. Outside, the wide streets are empty and bare. My mouth is suddenly dry and I rock back on my heels, cresting a crippling wave of panic and déjà vu.

This particular hallucination, the quiet and the smoke and the emptiness, was always my most frequent; I haven’t had it in six years but the familiarity of it stings. I shut my eyes tightly, and jab my hand at the panels of chipped buttons. Moments later I am on the top floor, walking half blind the path to my door with practiced familiarity. Once inside I sit on my bed, gripping tight the handle of my cane, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. Focused. Calm. Clear. I open my eyes.
>> Anonymous
House of Leaves is like a whole creepypasta book.
>> Anonymous
>>90879410
I can’t be outside like this, I know this. I was hit by a car when I was homeless, wandering dazed into the street, while my fevered mind saw only emptiness. I’ll need a replacement hip before I’m forty. I can hear the slivers of bone grind a little with every labored step. I call my boss, and leave a terse message, apologizing for being too ill to work today.

I hold my breath as I open the one tiny window in my studio. It’s so close to the building next to me, I can almost touch its brick wall and I can’t see the street from this height and angle: but as I strain to lean out the window, sounds of yelling and a few whining engines drift up to me. The pall of unearthly quiet is broken, and I feel a great sense of relief, knowing that my episode is over.

I am counting the pills in orderly columns on the table, proving a fifth time to myself that I have taken my daily regimen, when I start to hear the screaming. It builds from far below; riding the struts and supports of the tower until it seems to emanate from the bones of the building.
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
all the girls..... no sexy time
>> Anonymous
>>90879634
An hour later the sounds seem like they are right outside; horrid, terrified, inchoate clumps of half formed words and pleas, punctuated by wet, ragged shrieks and heavy muffled thudding. The breathing and relaxation exercises aren’t helping, and I’m gripping the edge of my bed, soaked in sweat. The idea appears fully formed in my mind: I need to barricade the door. I struggle to suppress it. It would be like- giving up, all progress I’ve made would be for naught if I entertain the notion that the episode is real.

But the screaming… this is a new one for me.

There’s the shuffle of movement outside, and the knob of the door twists violently and shudders against the deadbolt. I try to cry out, but my throat is parched and only a dry croak comes out. The door starts flex slightly as heavy blows land on the outside, and a mad, gibbering chorus of voices spits out a strange nonsense of broken syllables.

It only takes me a moment to decide now. I burst to my feet and throw all my weight into the bookshelf, crashing into it with bright white bolt of pain. It topples slowly, leaning at first like a tree and then smashing to the ground. On top of the bookshelf goes my desk and chairs, my hip screaming with each step. I collapse again on the floor, grasping for breath, and listen to the pounding subside and the horrid voices retreat.

That was two days ago.
>> Anonymous
GET HELP.

You start noticing those words when you're going about your day-to-day business - just flipping through the classifieds, or posted on telephones near bridges. Normal places. Just words that seem to be catching your eye.

Then they start appearing more randomly: the first seven tiles you pick in Scrabble, the first spoonful of alphabet soup, even those stupid spams sent by strangers. You even check a few of them, but they all end up being for the same old pills and promises.

Now it's getting so everything you read has those words crop up - close-captioned TV shows, book titles, CDs, bus schedules, menus, everywhere. It's distracting, very very distracting, it's so very hard to concentrate when words squiggle out of the corner of your eye, when the keyboard's no longer qwerty but gethelpgethelpgethelp.

The delusion's taking its toll. Who needs help? Who's sending you this message? Why you? How can you help someone who you don't even know?

You're trying to type an email to a friend. It's very hard to do. The letters keep swimming and you add an apology in the email, just in case your writing's garbled. You finally hit send.

Later, you wake up.

You're in the hospital. Your friend is sitting beside you. I was so worried, he says. When you sent that email. GET HELP GET HELP GET HELP, over and over. I came over and found you on the floor. They had to do surgery. Do you know what they found? A second brain. Tiny but fully formed, growing in your head. It was blocking an artery. You're lucky to be alive.

But you aren't really listening to your friend any more. You're staring at a fire escape diagram near your bed. It doesn't say anything about fire safety at all.

FINALLY, it says. IT WAS GETTING CROWDED IN THERE
>> Anonymous
>>90879855
They come back every day and scratch at the door, whispering in that vile gibberish. Sometimes I allow myself to think I can recognize the voices. The phone is dead, and the power is out. When I lean out the window and yell for help, the only answer I get is the occasional shriek or ululating babble.

When I was younger, when I was at my worst, my episodes would last for hours, at most. I am at a loss. I have very little food left and the water pressure has already dropped.

Lying in bed in the late summer heat, in a moment of near total silence, the inevitability of it occurs to me. If I stay, I’ll starve. What happens to me on the other side of the barricade only depends on how sick I really am.

I want to believe with a sudden desire I am just ill, simply and profoundly ill. The sureness of it wells up in me, and I feel suddenly awake and lucid. I need a doctor, surely, but soon the hallucination will lift and my mind will heal. I just need to break through this.

I need to go outside.
>> Anonymous
>>90880098
I remove the bookshelf slowly, rotating it away from the door gently to rest with the other furniture. This is right, I assure myself. This is healthy. I turn the deadbolt, put my hand on the handle, and try to suppress the rising terror in my guts. I give it a little pressure.

Outside, I hear a dry shuffling and a low rising murmur of unfathomable voices, and my surety drains from me, leaving only cold and naked horror in its place.

My hand is on the door.

I’m about to do a very stupid thing.

–
Credited to entropyblues.
>> Anonymous
While brushing your teeth in the evening, you catch a glimpse of your wall mirror, covered in fingerprints. Annoyed, you grab a towel and rub at them. They remain. Upon closer inspection, you realize that they seem to be on the other side of the glass...
>> David !!IVqeYabqS1c
everybody is reading the story
>> Anonymous
As a child, I was always quiet, and my conversations with others would always end up awkward. Because of that, I always preferred to be alone growing up. Which probably explains my strange obsession with toys, being as old as I am. They never talk. They just stare. I have to say though, being alone in an apartment full of figurines can be creepy sometimes.

However, being with my girl for almost two years, she understands my obsession well, but with this much, she would probably be shocked when she first sees them.

That night, she was more than excited to see my house. as we approached the door, she could barely contain her excitement, so without further delay, I swing the front door open. “Make yourself at home.” I say to her, “it’s kind of messy, but its more comfortable than it l-” her face was in shock, then absolute terror as she started to scream.

I tried to calm her, but it just got worse. I was puzzled. is she afraid of my toys? “I understand its a bit strange, but is it that horrifying? I take a quick look in my house but theres nothing horrific. I had to calm her down, as the neighbors were starting to come out. With a quick impulse, I quickly drag her in my house as I try to ease her mind. Her screaming just got louder and louder. At this point, I had no choice but to put my hand over her mouth. She watched me in terror with tears rolling down her face. I turn around and they were all staring at me as well.

…

>> Anonymous
>>90873651

so i've got some kids eyes, now how do i use them?
>> Anonymous
>>90880913
clever.
>> Anonymous
youtube "rubber johnny"
>> Anonymous
I live in a small apartment by myself, on the fifth floor. One night, a while back, I heard strange noises coming from down the hall. They weren’t shouts and they weren’t banging noises and they weren’t people fucking. They were weird. They sounded like gurgling. Loud gurgling.

Normally I don’t give a damn about what goes on in the rooms around me; my stance changes when whatever is going on pisses me off. These gurgling noises were doing just that. So, I left my apartment and headed towards the door at the end of the hallway, which seemed to be the source of the sound. I banged on the door and shouted at whoever happened to be in there to shut the hell up.

I stayed in front of the door for a little while to see if the noises would stop. They didn’t. I banged again and shouted again.

I heard a door open behind me, but I didn’t turn around. I knew it was some other stupid tenant who was pissed at me for shouting. Well, I was pissed at the gurgling noises.
ENTER
I kept banging and banging on the door. I had given up shouting because if I hadn’t, I would be hoarse for a week.

>> PingPongYeti !!LzoG3GxIS4x
>>90873759
inb4 wolfs
>> Anonymous
>>90881550
Nothing was working, and my hand was starting to get numb. I rested for a minute to let my hand get some blood flow. During that time, someone behind me started talking. “Sir,” the person said (I wasn’t paying attention to the voice, so I don’t know if it was a man or a woman), “I think-”

“I don’t care what you think!” I shouted at the person.

The commentator sent me over the edge. I stepped back a bit, nerved myself, and kicked the door as hard as I could.

The door burst open, and I walked inside.
ENTER
There was nothing. It was a bare room, completely devoid of furniture, curtains, pictures. Everything.

I ran all over the apartment, looking in all the rooms for something, ANYTHING, that could be causing the gurgling noises. All the rooms were the same, with nothing at all inside. I checked the sinks in the bathroom and kitchen, figuring some water problem could be making the noises, but I found nothing. Both sinks ran fine, and the noises didn’t seem to be louder around either sink. In fact, the noises weren’t louder anywhere in the apartment. The noises were the same volume all over the apartment.
>> Anonymous
Prominently displayed in the children's section of the Houston Downtown Public Library, among several others of the same title, My First Cookbook appears as a run-of-the-mill children's cookbook, complete with large print, simple instructions, colorful, friendly illustrations and a somewhat disproportionate desert section. In fact, the only major deviation from this theme is an article near the end of the book entitled "A Recipe for Success". This is a complex, macabre ritual involving human sacrifice, self mutilation and sacrilege, as well as more curious and innocuous practices such as walking down a stair case with a prime number of stairs taking them two at a time and then up it taking them three at a time. It's written in the same cheerfully simple prose as the rest of the book and accompanied by the same helpful, pastel drawings.
>> Anonymous
>>90881811
I ran out of the room, planning to get on the elevator and check the apartments above and below the one I had just checked, figuring something could be in the ceiling or floor.
ENTER
I was stopped by the owner of the building as I ran out of the apartment. Two guys grabbed ahold of me and held me, keeping me from moving.

“What’s going, [name removed]?” the owner asked, a very worried look on his face.

I explained the noises to him, as well as how the entire apartment was empty.

The owner shook his head and turned around. I asked him what was wrong. One of the people who had gathered in the hallway while I was beating against the door said, “What noises are you talking about? There are no noises.”
ENTER
My mother and father came to get me a couple of hours later. I was tied to a chair when they came. The other tenants had tied me up so I wouldn’t hurt myself anymore trying to find the “noises.” It turned out that my hand was badly broken from banging against the door so much. I apparently hadn’t registered the pain.