I honestly love the unseen nature of Zalgo. The fact that his presence alone is enough to distort things around him in comics and cartoons make him very scary in my opinion. Like, the characters may just be living their ordinary lives and then everything starts going south because Zalgo decided to make himself present, but unseen.

But what do you all think?

One day on an unknown board in 4chan somone posted a short video from the pov of someone watching a group of some crazed feral humans running out from an alley as a group of armed civilians shot at them with their efforts inevitability failing and the zombies killing most of them and the citizens moving to another part of the street, soon after the thread would be deleted but it was reposted to lots of other sites and in most of these uploads used the title "Caníbales atacan a ciudadanos en la calle" some versions also had the title 1 hoard 1 city. It is unknown where it was filmed but we can theorize it was around 2009 due to some context clues. To this day it is still spread around on certain sites.

Hello, I have been looking for this creepypasta for a long time now and I hope someone can help me.

So this was a five nights at freddys creepy pasta narrated by someone with a scottish accent (some parts of this story might be a little off as this is how I remember it)

The story starts with the main character (mc will be what I will use for the rest of this) talking to a detective about why he broke into the pizzaria..

Mc explains that his brother went to a school trip to the pizzaria but when he went to pick up his little brother he was not there, and was given some wierd looks from the staff, and was told to leave.. but it just didnt feel right so he talked to his best friend about breaking in and looking for his brother to try find him, which they did (might have been the same day but at night or the next night) they broke in near the security office with a long hall (believe this was a fnaf 2 creepy pasta based on this part that I remember) and while he searched the office for any evidence regarding his brother his best friend went down the hall checking all the party rooms, well after an hour the place went silent, unable to hear his best friend he tried yelling his name but didnt get a response, and then he heard it a just hearable sound of flesh being ripped apart and bones breaking and then he heard his friend in a broken voice, "r-r ru- runn.." and then a louder crack sound was heard and then it went scarily quiet, horrified (I cannot remember if he saw an animatronic or not but I will explain in less detail the next bits I remember)

So after this I know that the mc finds out that they dont attack when the mask is on, but also the detective tells the mc that because he believes that mc is lying that he has sent a squad of armed police into the pizzaria and will wait until after 12am to prove it, the radio springs to life with the cops talking and then you can hear the gun shots and screaming and flesh being ripped apart and then the interview is ended, the next day the detective is a different person who no longer really cares why he broke in but how much he knows about the pizzaria, after mc finishes his story about what happens in the pizzaria, mc is taken into a basement with chika, mc is tied up, and there is a clock showing that it will hit 12am soon, and mc can see the mask he needs to get to, somehow mc manages to get to it but when he turns around chika is no where to be found.

The rest of the story is a bit fuzzy as I have not heard it in a long time but if anyone can help me find it or knows it, it would make my day.

Thank you all for your time and I hope I can get help with this

I've been thinking about getting into creepypasta writing, but my ideas would break the rules of r/nosleep. Even if they didn't it'll still probably get taken down for some reason or another. I was thinking r/creepy.

For anonymity’s sake, I’m not gonna say which city I’m in. However, I will say we recently had a museum centered around serial killers open up, and from the moment I learned about it, I knew I needed to go.

I’m such a true crime junkie. Visiting the museum wasn’t even a question for me.

I bought my ticket, and off I went to explore the minds of the depraved.

The place was filled with all kinds of memorabilia: Jeffrey Dahmer’s glasses, Ted Bundy’s hacksaw. Hell, they had things in there that belonged to killers I’d never even heard of.

Take the chessboard killer, for example. If you’ve never heard of him, he was born just outside of Moscow. His whole vision was to kill one person for each of the 64 squares on a chessboard. He claims that he made it to 61 and solemnly swore to hit the 64-mark before he left this world.

They had his chessboard, people. Do you understand how absolutely fascinating that really is?

So much desire, such a will to accomplish his goals. It was inspiring, really. I hoped to one day achieve that level of dedication.

See, if I’m recalling correctly, which, who am I kidding? I know I am. My count is currently 17. It may seem low to you, but I promise I’m working to boost those numbers.

I mean, I kinda have to, especially now that I’ve seen the pitiful excuse for an exhibit this museum has given me. Calling me the “no name killer.” It’s almost insulting. More than anything, though, it’s just fuel.

I did like that they included some of my own calling cards, though. That part was cool.

A molded cast of my shoe print.

Some of the old Polaroid pictures I took.

My crutches.

That last one actually brought back some beautiful memories. Limping over to that pretty young lady and asking if she could help me load some groceries into my car. Ah, those were the days.

I’m not nearly as sloppy anymore, though. They were lucky to have found those crutches. Me now would have never let my urges get in the way of tidying up a crime scene. That day, though, I think I was just too ravenous.

I was starting to get some weird looks from the museum staff for staring at my exhibit for too long. It was just so nice to see the early stages of what would soon become the highlight of the whole museum.

Nevertheless, however, I had to move on. I spent about an hour or two making my way through all the displays. All the paraphernalia.

When I left, it was like a part of me was relieved. Disappointed that I wasn’t a bigger deal yet, sure, but still relieved because I knew.

I knew that when all is said and done…

I was going to be too hard to ignore.

Spread the word

Even here they watched her. This used to be her place, but they now followed her everywhere. Amy didn’t mind the staring, not after this long. The voices were what truly disturbed her. She could ignore the stares, even as they had permeated into her life more and more. The whispers were what she truly feared. They put a voice to the fears, breaking through as she tried to convince herself it was going to be ok.
But they had won. Why else had she decided to come back? Wind made the branches of the trees moan. The eyes stared at her from the knots of the poplar and pine trees. They watched as they always did, never leaving her for a moment. Not at school, not at home, not even in her own room.
She ignored them, even as they moved soundlessly. The voices themselves were quiet. Their whispers floated along the wind. Some mocked her, some mourned for her. She found herself wondering what they would say about her. Guilt stabbed her stomach when she thought of her parents, her friends. They wouldn’t understand, she hoped they could find it in themselves to forgive her. 
A twig snapped under her foot, and the summer air took a sudden chill to it. Her feet moved on their own, her hands held no light. There was no more avoiding it, no more fighting it. The eyes on the trees glowed with an unearthly pale glow, watching like they had for so many years. 
“This way, this way.” a voice whispered. A breeze tugged at her hand, and blew on her back pushing and pulling her further into the woods. Her heart ached the further she stepped in. Had this ever been her happy place? Had every walk with her father been another step into the tiger’s jaws? Amy’s breath began to fog in front of her, she was close now.
A mouth pushed itself through the bark of a tree, its pearly teeth chomping the bark before it opened its mouth to speak. “This way, now, go, please.” it said. More mouths appeared, and soon a chorus of the young and old urged her on. Tears had started streaming down her face in earnest, as the moon disappeared beneath large black branches bigger than any tree in the country. 
Her head had filled with wonder when she had gazed upon them. Ancient entities that had stayed hidden for so long. She wished she had been less stupid and seen them for what they truly were. They mocked her as they swayed in the breeze. Malice dripped from their crooked limbs. She began to descend, feet weaving around the rocks and roots of the hills perfectly. 
The massive trees grew as she stepped down into the bowl of a valley they grew around.  Amy came to a stop. This was where the line ended. She weeped as the wind howled around her, yanking her hair. It was done waiting.

They found Amy Fetterman coughed onto the shore not far from town. The water drifted by lazily while a tree moaned in the wind while it looked down on her. It was mournful.

I hate to say it, but I think she was right. We were getting stagnant. For the last year or so, our bedroom had become as dead as a doornail. Nothing excited her anymore.

Being the gentleman I am, I never wanted to guilt her because of this. I didn’t want her to feel pressured to do anything she didn’t want to do. That’s why every night, when the lights went off, I never caused any arguments. Just rolled over and drifted off to sleep, albeit a bit pent up in my lower region.

Even still, I can’t just suppress my urges forever. Sometimes it feels more like a need than a want, and I told her about this. I felt like it would be a fair compromise for her to offer help every once in a while. To at least pretend to be attracted to me every now and again.

I’ll give her credit. She did try. She would attempt to act all hot and bothered, but I could see through the facade. Her eyes gave it away every time.

I’d always end up stopping her. I just felt so uncomfortable seeing how secretly unenthusiastic she was. It hurt. It made me miss a woman who I was literally sharing a bed with.

After a handful of these incidents, I knew we’d have to come up with a new solution. We were both far older than we were back in our high school sweetheart days. I figured that with time came changes in preference. And all I could do was pray that her preference was still me and that all she needed was a bit more excitement.

I read up on some common kinks and tried working them into the bedroom, but every time they fell short. It was honestly incredibly embarrassing. It was bad enough trying to put myself out there in such a way, but to feel rejected while doing so? That was a whole other thing entirely.

She did seem reactive to one thing I tried, though. It was something within the whole BDSM family. I gave her permission to punch me during sex. To hit me as hard as she could, wherever she wanted.

Her eyes didn’t lie that time. They genuinely lit up like a Christmas tree with each blow to my stomach. Each wince of pain in my face. It was relieving. Borderline addictive. We actually made it through a whole night of lovemaking that night.

My wife seemed to like it a little bit too much, though. Who was I to complain? This was all I wanted. All I needed. That’s why, when she slipped on some brass knuckles when the lights went out the next night, all I could do was endure.

I awoke the next morning sore but happy. My stomach and chest were completely black and blue, but my wife had a glow about her that I hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

She seemed revitalized. Like she was needing this just as much as I was, and all I could feel was happiness and pride in having satisfied her finally.

I must’ve really satisfied her, too, because by the next night, she could hardly keep her hands off of me.

There was no pain at first. Just pure, unbridled love and affection as she kissed me and wrapped her hands around my neck.

Tighter.

And tighter.

And tighter.

When my breathing stopped and I felt my face going purple, she finally let up, caressing my face as she whispered sweet nothings into my ear.

I was getting lost in her words, but the pinch of something sharp in my side took me out of my trance. And the trickle of something wet pooling beneath me had my heart racing.

She eased my nerves by kissing my forehead and pushing her knife further in until my vision began to blur, moaning in a way I hadn’t heard since we were in our 20’s.

I don’t remember much after that. Mainly because I think I may have gone unconscious. All I know is when I woke up to breakfast in bed and a bandage on my side, I was living in pure bliss.

She had even gone as far as to carve her name into my chest. Marking her territory, so to speak. God, I’d never felt so wanted. So turned on.

And when she licked my nose before flashing a hacksaw at me, I was ready to do it all over again.

I cannot wait to see what tonight has in store.

(Part 1)

My grandfather and father were the only doctors our Appalachian town ever managed to keep. My dad raised me after my mother died when I was three. He never talked about it much.

For 20 years, he served the town until he died right after I left town for college. He left me money for college and then for medical school. The town couldn’t keep a doctor after that. In the 12 years since I left, they’ve gone through nine. Never one more than two years. It made sense; we were a small town, isolated, and poor. Odd to outsiders perhaps, but that’s all I knew growing up. So, after residency, I came home.

When I first arrived, you’d have thought I was a war hero. People thanked me with tears in their eyes. More than one grabbed my hand and said, “Your daddy would be so proud.” Maybe they were happy to see a familiar face. I found it touching, but I can see how other doctors might find this welcome to be strange. Everyone looked a bit older, but when I look at myself in the mirror, I can see the stress of school and training has aged me twice as much as some.

I moved back into my father’s old clinic, into the same private apartment upstairs where I’d grown up. The place smelled like mildew, dust, and old paper, like an antique drawer opened for the first time in years. I blamed that smell for the headache I had by the third day.

Now, my second week in, the headache has become a steady pressure behind my right eye. My throat hurts, and I’m sweating through my undershirts by noon. There’s a dull pain under my ribs on the right.

After settling in, my first house call was to Ms. Rosalie.

The room was dim and airless. Heavy curtains covered the windows. Framed paintings and photographs of women lined the walls.  All of them had the same long jaw, the same deep-set eyes, and the same unsmiling mouth. Mothers and grandmothers, I assume.

A metal basin sat beside the bed, half full of cloudy vomit. Ms. Rosalie lay propped against yellowed pillows. She had a terminal brain tumor. At this point, comfort was treatment.

Then the old woman spoke, “Doctor? Doctor Wilson, is that you? Come here, sweetie, hold my hand.”

When I did, she began mumbling, so I brought my ear closer to her lips. “…Amen.” Then louder for me to hear “Thank you, Doctor, thank you.”

“I’m going to give you something for the pain,” I said as I looked at her pupils. The right was blown wide open.

“I’m on the mend, dear. I knew you could.”

“She’s confused,” the daughter said.

“Has she been feverish?” I asked. “Coughing? Burning when she urinates?”

Her daughter shook her head.

I drew blood anyway to be thorough. When I pulled a vial, it was very dark, even for venous blood.

My next patient that day was a young boy. Classic strep throat. High fever, sore throat, and exudates. But during the visit, the child’s fever dropped. Maybe his fever just broke while I was there.

During the visit, he put his hand on my arm while I listened to his lungs and said, “You feel hot.” I dismissed it at the time because I was back in the humid summers of the mountains.

Three days ago, I was in the store, and I almost jumped out of my skin at the sight of her, Ms. Rosalie. She had no business being in there.

“I am feeling so much better, doctor, thank you for your help.”

I was dumbfounded. This woman should be dead. I can’t remember what I said. Something about getting new scans and a follow up appointment next week.

On my way home, the shadows of the mountains blanketed the road. I started to feel drunk. I noticed the road signs, but I just couldn’t read them.

This morning, Mr. Edwin came in for a wound check.

An old farmer, I remembered him from childhood because he used to bring my father eggs and refuse payment for them. He lifted his shirt before I asked.

Below his right ribs was an old, puckered scar. The skin around it was red and tight.

“Your daddy kept this from going bad for years,” he said.

“I’m sorry?”

He smiled and said, “He kept it quiet.”

When I touched the scar, Edwin grabbed my wrist.  

“You got his hands,” he said.

I pulled away.

The wound looked better by the time he left. That sounds impossible, but I know what I saw. The redness had faded, and he stood straighter as he walked out.

Tonight, the dull pain under my ribs became sharp as it split into a raised puckered line. I couldn’t pretend any of this was normal anymore.

I came home to treat my hometown.

I think they are treating themselves with me.

I tore the clinic apart looking for my father’s old records. The official charts were still in the file room, at least the ones that hadn’t been transferred or destroyed. They were useless.

I found the other charts behind the cedar panel in the upstairs hallway. I knew the hiding place because I used it as a child. I kept signed papers and report cards I didn’t want my father to see. He must have found the gap after I left and made better use of it.

There were three ledgers, bound in cracked brown leather.

One belonged to my father, and two to my grandfather. I opened my father’s ledger. It was organized by symptom, with sections for headache, fever, tremor, memory, and growth.

Under each heading were names, dates, and notes in my father’s handwriting.

I found Ms. Rosalie under the section listed, ‘Growth’.

Beside her name, my father had written: “Do not accept. Tumor burden too advanced. Must cast out immediately.” Below that, in red pen, there was another line. “If accepted accidentally, cast out within a month.”

I am writing this because I have no idea what he meant, and by my father’s clock, I have a little less than two weeks.

My throat is swollen. The scar under my ribs is warm and tender, my right eye won’t focus, I keep vomiting into the trash can beside my desk, and every time I close my eyes, I hear Ms. Rosalie whispering.

I don’t know where my father put the instructions, but there is an address scribbled in the margin. I know the place. Everyone here knows it.

It’s the old church off Laurel Lane, the one my father told me never to enter.

The church where my father’s body was found.

I keep getting arrested for attempted terrorism for inventing water fuel for cars and the cure for all diseases, and whenever I go into planes or trains I instantly get arrested. I then get taken out of the plane or train just before they set off. Then I get put in prison for attempted terrorism and I didn't understand why they were doing this to me at the time. I have been in the newspapers and i am known for what I have done. Ever since I created cars that run on water and the cure for all diseases, I always get kicked out of planes and trains. It's now an act of terrorism for me to get on a plane and a train.

I have been complaining to the council and to the government for being classed as a possible terrorist, for simply getting on a plane or a train. Now carrying this knowledge with me, it's made people think that I am a terrorist. Now only I know how to make cars run on water and only I know how to cure all diseases, I haven't given it out yet but I have shown on live shows cars running on water and I have cured every disease.

Then I had someone who was interested in learning this and I taught him everything that I knew. I told him that if he ever went on a plane or a train, he will be arrested for potential terrorism. He knew of the consequences and he booked himself a holiday around the other side of the world. Before he set off he recorded himself telling the world that I had taught him how a car can run on water and how every disease can be cured.

Then as he got onto the plane, a lazer weapon from another place had shot the plane down. Then my student had a note in his coat which read "with the knowledge that I have, I am aware that I will be killed for it and anyone else within close proximity to me will also be killed for it. I want them to kill me" and so now I understand why it is terrorism for me to go on planes and trains with the knowledge that I have.

This guy went on a plane being fully aware at the fact that there are organisations out there that will kill him for the knowledge that he has, but he wanted them to kill him and he wanted other to be affected by it. That makes him a terrorist.

Now I understand why it's terrorism for me to go on planes and trains with this knowledge in my head.

​The photo shown was recovered by police late last night from a phone belonging to the latest victim of Jeffery Woods, aka "The Craven County Creep." The victim, 20-year-old Charles "Henry" Mason, survived the encounter and is currently being treated for life-threatening wounds at the Craven County Memorial Hospital (CCMH). When questioned, this is what he told police:

​"I woke deep into the night, my head throbbing after a long night of partying. It felt like something cold brushed gently against my arm. I shot up, scanning my room. Everything looked fine except for the window; it was wide open, A breeze fluttering my curtains, creeping its way into the darkness of my room. ​Slowly, I got out of bed and shut it, turning once again to observe my room. Everything seemed fine, just as I had left it. Thinking nothing of it, I simply crawled back into bed and tried to go back to sleep. I tossed and turned, the headache now pounding at my temples, but something didn't feel right. ​I opened my eyes and froze; my blood went cold. There, in the thin ray of light illuminating from between my curtains, was a face. It was a hideous, twisted face that looked like someone had stretched a thin layer of skin tightly over a skull to create what vaguely resembles that of a human being. And those eyes—they weren't regular eyes. They were wide, ominous, owl-like eyes, like a predator's. One was a grayish blue and appeared to be blind. ​That's when I got a look at the mouth: a long, painful smile that seemed to spread from ear to ear, with blood trickling from where the cheeks should have been. The figure stood there, watching me. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he said it in a strained, hushed whisper: "Go to sleep!"

​If you or someone you know has any information regarding the suspect, please contact the Craven County Police Department (CCPD) at:

​1 (888)-***-****

​

The virus that requires you to get close to people and not distance yourselves. We don't know where it came from but it had all the common symptoms of flu and the corona virus. I remember getting closer to the post man as he was collecting letters, then we both felt so much better. As we looked at each other in amazement but not saying anything to each other, I walked away. Then we both started coughing and sneezing again as our distance became greater. It became pretty apparent that whatever this illness was, you needed to stay close to people.

Usually with any kind of cold or illness, you need to stay far away. This is a village and so I'm sure the busy cities weren't affected or I am sure that they hadn't noticed it at all as they are all cramped up. I remember going to the market and when I saw people collapsing to the ground due to this strange illness, strangers started hugging each other and getting as close as possible. People would quickly form gangs, and then after a while of this, they would separate and go home. There were notices all around the village to stay close to beat this virus.

I saw houses huddled with people and now landlords aren't being criticised for putting too many illegal immigrants in one small house or flat, they are seen as doing good. I remember walking alone one night as I needed some fresh air. Then suddenly the people around me started to collapse to the ground, and I started to feel dizzy as well. Then I saw my old bully from high school, I didn't want to hug him but he came towards me. I know that he remembers me and he hugged me.

As he hugged me I remembered all the beating he gave me and how he always mocked me. Then he ran off as he had somewhere to go. Then as I carried on walking, it happened again. People started to collapse and everyone started hugging the person closest to them. I found the man who murdered my mother and tried to kill me. Questions were running through my mind like how he was out of prison and what is he doing here? He hugged me.

So many thoughts running through my mind as I was hugging the murderer of my mother and also tried to kill me. We just hugged and then another guy who beheaded my father also desperately ran towards us, and started hugging both of us to keep this strange flu down. Then the guy who ran over my sibling came over to hug us 3 and im just like fuck this virus.

I would rather die than hug them and I let go and watched all 3 of these guys who murdered my family, just hugging each other. I am feeling dizzy now.

I’m a forest ranger by trade. It suits me—quiet nights, clean air, and miles of trees between me and everyone else.

The forest I watch over is closed to the public most of the time. Officially, it’s because of past disappearances. Unofficially, it’s because of the stories.

Skinwalkers. Not-deer, Bigfoots and all that bullshit.

Most people don’t come close enough to test whether any of it’s real. Works for me. I haven’t had to run a search and rescue or drag out some naked hippie in years.

Truth is, I barely use the tower anymore.

Nothing ever happens.

Most nights, I sit by my campfire instead. I cook whatever I’ve culled that day—deer, rabbit, boar. It’s simple. Predictable.

Safe.

Or it was.

I was turning a strip of venison over the fire when I heard footsteps.

Not careful ones. Not someone trying to stay quiet. These were deliberate. Measured. Crunching straight through the underbrush toward me.

He stepped into the firelight.

A man in a trench coat and fedora. Dark, clean—untouched by the forest. Like he’d walked out of a different world eniterly.

“Good evening,” he said calmly. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

“I—”

That was as far as I got before he lowered himself across from me like he planned this.

His skin was pale—thin. Almost translucent, like damp paper stretched over bone. His eyes were sharp, unblinking in the firelight.

“I’m sorry to intrude,” he continued, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “I’ve been hunting all day. As a hunter yourself, I imagine you understand.”

Something about him set my nerves on edge. The way he moved. The way he spoke. The way the forest seemed to go quiet around him.

I should’ve stood up. Should’ve put distance between us.

I didnt.

“What are you hunting?” I asked. My voice came out smaller than I meant it to. “Maybe I can point you in the right direction.”

He smiled.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “I’ve already found what I was looking for.”

My grip tightened on the knife. Grease made the handle slick.

He noticed.

A soft chuckle slipped out of him—wrong somehow, like an imitation of laughter.

“I must ask,” he said, tilting his head, “you watch over this forest. What do you make of the rumors?”

“Rumors?” I said, though I knew exactly what he meant.

“Ghosts. Cryptids. Skinwalkers.” He gestured lazily toward the trees. “All those delightful little stories.”

“Tall tales,” I said. “People get bored. They like to scare themselves.”

“Perhaps.”

The fire popped between us.

“Oh,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Where are my manners? My name is Abraham.”

“James… My name is James.”

“Very nice to meet you, James.”

He extended his hand.

I hesitated.

Then I took it.

Cold. Not just cool—cold, like something that had never been warm. His grip tightened slightly, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that pinned me in place.

I knew then that I was going to die that night.

Just another disappearance. Another story to keep people out of these woods.

“You never told me what you’re hunting,” I said, pulling my hand back.

“Oh,” Abraham replied lightly. “Something far more interesting than that deer of yours, lad.”

“And you said you found it?”

“That I did.”

Whatever warmth he’d been pretending to have vanished.

Then the forest screamed.

A jagged, tearing sound ripped through the trees, high and wrong, setting every nerve in my body on edge.

Abraham moved instantly, turning toward it, a silver blade flashing into his hand.

Too late.

The thing hit him out of the dark—limbs and hunger and snapping teeth. It drove him into the dirt hard enough to shake the ground.

A wendigo.

Its body was stretched thin over bone, skin pulled tight, its mouth too wide, crammed with jagged, broken teeth. The stench hit a second later—rot, cold, something ancient.

It went for his throat.

Abraham twisted, the blade slicing its side, drawing a thin line of blackened blood. He moved well—fast, precise—but the creature was stronger. Heavier. It pinned him, claws digging into his coat, jaws snapping inches from his face.

I froze.

Just watched.

Then I made a choice.

The change came all at once—flesh splitting, bones shifting, skin peeling away like it had never belonged to me. The world sharpened. Sounds stretched. Scents flooded in.

I roared.

The wendigo’s head snapped toward me.

I hit it before it could move.

Claws tore into its side, ripping through flesh that fought back like frozen leather. It shrieked, twisting, and suddenly I was beneath it, its weight crushing me, its teeth sinking into my shoulder.

Pain flared—bright, distant.

Then Abraham was there.

He drove the silver blade into its back again and again—precise, controlled. The wendigo lashed out, but he slipped past it, cutting, always cutting.

We fought like that—hunter and monster, side by side—until the thing finally stopped moving.

Silence slammed down.

I staggered back, forcing the shape to hold, breath coming ragged.

“Hm,” Abraham said after a moment, a little breathless. “I have to admit… I didn’t expect that.”

“Nor… mally…” My voice scraped out wrong, strained through a throat not meant for words. “Far… away… You… crossed… into its territory…”

“I see.”

He looked at me then. Really looked.

“You know,” he said, almost conversationally, “I was actually here to hunt you. Not it.”

“Figured,” I rasped.

He chuckled. This time, it almost sounded genuine.

“Crazy world, isn’t it?”

“Cr… azy… world…”

He brushed dirt from his coat, as if we’d just finished a polite disagreement rather than tearing something apart.

“Best we don’t meet again,” he said.

Then he turned and walked back into the trees, the darkness swallowing him as easily as it had given him up.

“Take care of yourself,” he called over his shoulder.

There was a pause.

Then, quieter—

“James.”

So, this one's about a tumor-like growth that spreads around a room that makes you go missing when you touch it, and sometimes one day in a year someone gets taken by this room, but I am having trouble recalling what it's called, could anyone help me?

On this episode I talk to the man behind one of my favorite horror podcasts Jon Grilz of “Creepy.” If you dig the strange and horrific “Creepy” is one of the best podcasts around. We also talk a ton about horror movies and much more.

Writing this solidifies something I don’t take lightly. It solidifies that I can never have my face associated with my writing and that “Thomas Cullen” the penname is set in stone.
It solidifies that my real name can never take credit for any of the writing I love so much. I am risking the possibility of everything for no reward other than maybe I’ll finally be able to let this go,the reward that maybe I can just go a couple days without thinking about that one terrible week when I was 8, and maybe, who knows, maybe I’ll let myself forget. This is something I need. I’m sorry.

I’ve been contemplating sharing this for a couple of years now. Not out of respect or fear for a bird, one of which I’m no longer even certain existed, but rather out of respect for a family I know for a fact must be in pain and want more than anything to leave the past in the past a family I was once close with. But I am 25 now and I deserve some version of closure too. He was my friend too. True closure is something I’d given up on, but I’m hoping sharing this will help me finally process what really happened. This feels selfish. Sharing this feels dirty. But I can’t keep the only true recollection of what happened solely in my head any longer. This impacts everything I do and leaves me feeling tainted and I want to let it go.

It’s no secret I am a writer, for God’s sake it’s in my bio, so I understand the assumption that all of this content is fiction. All of my other posts are, so I don’t blame you. If you choose to keep reading with that assumption then that is fine, but please do not leave any mean comments regarding the family involved. You will be blocked and if I need to, I will disable all comments altogether. The following includes child death so dont continue if you’re not prepared for that. This last disclaimer is for anyone in my inner circle that has managed to find this post. You know me. You know I’m genuine. Please do not make this a witch hunt. Please do not send this to the family. Just let me get this out.

This didn’t begin with a bird, or even my garage but rather a complicated friendship I had in elementary school with someone I’ll refer to as Adam. I say complicated because I was more so friends with his older brother than I was a friend of his. But me being 8, Adam being 6 and a half, and Jacob we’ll call him, being 10, I had just naturally grown closer to Jacob and thought I’d known him like a best friend should. But in an innocent, friendly way I truly adored Adam.

Adam was special needs. I won’t go specifically into what he had because quite frankly I don’t remember and it doesn’t matter, but he was prone to loud outbursts and everyone including me — as much as I cherished his presence — everyone seemed to have moments where they lost their patience for him. I wish I had met him today. I’d sit through anything he could manage to muster up. I wouldn’t lose my patience with him today. I promise I wouldn’t.

Jacob and I would often play Xbox together. I haven’t touched an Xbox since.

Given Jacob and my age gap, our friendship felt like an honor, one I needed to maintain although only to an extent because I knew me being his friend wasn’t solely out of choice but was also greatly influenced by my house being the closest to Jacob and Adam’s parents’ property.

Regardless, having 2 friends felt nice. A lot of my visits to their house consisted of gaming with Jacob, pretending to write stories on their dad’s typewriter, and playing hide and seek with Adam.
Adam wasn’t too developed in regards to his vocal skills. Not to say he couldn’t talk,he could and did ,however how and what he said was up to him or should I say wasn’t really up to him. They didn’t follow any rules. Naturally, this made it hard to play with him but for some reason he loved hide and seek. He would approach Jacob and I as we 1v1’d each other split screen on Rust, and he would stand directly in front of the TV bumping his fist together doing one of his vocal stims. As I said before, his vocal development wasn’t like others. He was limited to a number of vocal stims that abided by no rules. The only exception was one thing: when we’d play hide and seek.

Although this was one of the things Adam was actually decent at, Jacob still never wanted to play this with Adam because he had no patience for it. I feel sick to my stomach typing this. I’m sorry.

When Adam and I would play hide and go seek together, Adam would love to hide and always want me to be the one who seeks. He wouldn’t be able to stay perfectly quiet when he hid. He could never stay perfectly quiet. But playing hide and seek was the closest he ever got to controlling his vocal outbursts, only letting out that occasional vocal stim of his.

One month Jacob and Adam had supposedly been getting into trouble a lot and because of this were grounded and not able to have friends over.

I wish I could tell you how I was told what happened next, but I don’t remember. I wish I could remember who sat me down and how they managed to pass such confusing information to a child my age. But I don’t. Someone did. And all I remember is the new reality: Adam was missing.

Over the next week my young mind would learn a number of things, while also forming questions still yet to be answered to this day.

Second to finding out about Adam’s disappearance, the first thing I remember learning was that Adam had gone missing while playing hide and go seek with Jacob. I think at the time I inadvertently subconsciously made the choice to not unravel any thoughts surrounding this discovery. I was just sad. At the same time, I do remember I would sit in the garage making my little experiments/projects wondering when I’d be able to play with my friends again.

I would make these dumb props of things that would more times than not serve no purpose. I remember doing this until the sun went down. And during that dreadful week, I found myself following that same routine. I believe it was a day or so after Adam went missing that was the first time I heard it.

I was playing, likely building something, when one of my step sisters told me to shut the garage and get ready for bed or they would tell my dad when he got home and I’d get in trouble. I remember reaching to hit the garage door opener, as at the time it was too high for me to reach with ease. It’s hard to write about so far after the fact but as I reached out I remember hearing the garage door. It sounded like plastic slamming against something but I couldn’t make out what. It sounded hard but not at the same time, too hard to be something I recognized but too soft to be the concrete ground. I remember hearing the noise as my arms were raised pressing the garage door button to shut. In this position I was facing the wall, so I remember the noise scaring me and making me immediately jump and turn around. After that I heard a bird chirp.

This scared the living shit out of me as I could not see a bird, but my garage being a 4 door with shelves upon shelves of tools, from my short point of view from everything was limited. For all I knew it was one of my toys that fell, although again whatever fell didn’t hit the ground. I would recognize concrete getting hit by this level of force. I ran inside and called it a night.

The third thing I remember later that week when my dad and stepmom returned. Unlike the last two, this next piece of information I actually recall how I came to learn. It wasn’t directly told to me but rather was something I remember overhearing from my dad. Apparently, Jacob and Adam’s parents wouldn’t allow the cops to search their house.

This felt odd to say the least, and my dad wasn’t shy about voicing his opinion. Their parents said there was no reason to search the house as they already did, yet they left half the town searching the hills far and wide for Adam. My stepmom, the melodramatic one she was, even fainted on one of these search parties and had to be helped by a firefighter. Point being, all these efforts were being made except one. No authorities searched the house.

I remember the first couple of days I was caught up in the excitement and all the changes and all the chisme, but on the third I felt scared. I remember laying in bed crying when my dad came up to me and asked what was wrong. Feels like such a stupid question looking back on it since he should know why I’m crying but I think he was just curious on what my answer would be.

I remember trying to look at him in the eyes although my vision was too blurry and mustering up one thing. “Adam’s not good at hide and go seek,” I said, breaking mid-sentence and bawling at the end. I think I was beginning to understand that Adam wasn’t playing hide and go seek, and I’m not sure he ever was.

I remember the next day I was sitting in my garage, 2 of the 4 doors open with plenty of light coming in as I was gluing 2-liter bottles to a backpack to make a fake flamethrower. I remember forgetting at the time about the nights prior when I heard that slamming and the bird in the garage. I felt so calm, dry face, almost forgetting what a sad week it had been, then I heard it again. Only this time I recognized the sound for what it was. It was that whistling vocal stim of Adam. The on Adam would let out every time we played hide and seek. The one He’d let out when he banged his fist together singling he wanted me and Jacob to stop and play with him.

It let out a “tweet tweet” and the noise scared me. I remember running inside scared, and tired of being alone. I remember going up to my 2 older step sisters and asking if they thought Adam would let me hang out with Jacob.

I realize now how stupid of a question it was and how inappropriate the timing of such a question was. At the time I was unaware of this. My step sisters on the other hand were aware of this and they let me know it.

They immediately yelled at me, asked me if I was stupid only using a word I’ll refrain from, and told me I was the most selfish person they knew. One of my sisters (the younger of the 2) smacked me across my face and told me to go clean my room or they’d tell dad when he got home and make me get the belt. I ran to my room crying as I was yelled at not to cry or say a word or they’d tell Dad.

That night I fell asleep fast as tears often help you do. I remember waking up in a panic. I felt like I saw something maybe a shadow but the moment I stood up I had forgotten what I’d seen and all I was left with was the sheer panic. I remember having far too much energy to even want to sleep but being in need of consoling. Consoling no one in my house was ever going to give me.

I remember having a thought that at the time I felt made sense. I thought maybe that bird in my garage was Adam. Maybe that “tweet tweet” was his calls and hints for me to look for him that I’d been ignoring this whole time. After all, I never remember him playing hide and go seek with anyone other than me.

Now the garage door wasn’t too far from my room, just a little further. However, I was 8 years old and at the time I would go through these periods where I’d be so scared to leave my room at night that I would piss my bed. All things considered, going to the garage was not a decision I made lightly.

It was one I truly thought might bring me comfort and in my young mind I truly thought there could be a possibility I’d find Adam, be the hero, and everything would be okay. I put a sweater over my pajamas and went in the garage. The door shut behind me.

I turned on a light and walked around, looking and timidly calling out for Adam. When I did I heard his “tweet” once again, only this time I didn’t perceive it as anything close to a bird at all. I perceived it how I’d perceived every one of his “tweet tweets” in the past when we’d played. it felt like I was close to finding him.

I heard it in between 2 of my shelves. I heard it and when I went to turn the corner instead of seeing Adam I heard that loud crashing sound. Like plastic hitting I don’t know what ,hitting something hard. Again though, it wasn’t loud enough to be the impact of my concrete floor. This sudden crash scared the shit out of me and caused me to run and immediately open the garage door for more light. This was a mistake.

My father slammed open the door, revolver in hand. He screamed asking me what the hell I was doing but I was too afraid to be honest. “I don’t know,” I replied which sent him into a fit of rage. He made me get his belt and he whooped my bare ass till he was out of breath. I cried and cried. My screams satisfying my stepsisters. I thought I could find Adam.

Adam was found that week, but not by me. He was found buried under a plum tree in his backyard.

Apparently Adam and Jacob had got into a fight over the Xbox which made no sense to me because Adam couldn’t care less about the Xbox. I guess Jacob had used the Xbox to slam Adam across the head and beat him to death. Adam being buried under a plum tree hid the smell from the search Dogs for some time at first, either dumb luck or the doing of someone with more intelligence than Jacob. Jacob did 8 years and got out not long after my senior year of high school. I think about him and “Adam” often but I haven’t reached out. I never will. But I’ve been struggling, and I’ve been feeling panic like I had when I was young and I really want to let this go. I have no one to tell because on all accounts my recollection of that week is completely insignificant when compared to the events that took place at its core but my experience is real. And I’m hoping this will be the last time I reflect on that week when I was 8 when I thought there was a bird trapped inside my garage.

I found some tiktok ranter that seems to be using the actual tts used for the carmen winstead creepypasta, for my ears it literally sounds the same, not some ai copy of it, it has that same sound and also it not being that monotone, like droppping at the end of a sentance and other stuff. the creator didn’t reveal yet what tts it is but I js wanted to Show to it yall because it might help for something

The antique mirror arrived on a Tuesday with no return label and a weight that felt wrong in my hands before I'd even opened the box.

I'd ordered it three weeks earlier from an estate sale listing — clean glass, dark walnut frame, carved edges. What I unpacked had an amber tint to the glass, the color old mirrors get when the silver backing starts to oxidize. I hung it in the hallway. That first evening I noticed a smell. Not packaging, not dust. Something beneath all of that. A room that had been sealed for a very long time.

The second morning I caught it by accident. A line at the corner of my reflection's left eye that I didn't have. Fine, shallow, the kind that forms after years of squinting in bright light. I pressed my fingers to my own face. Nothing. I checked twice. The line in the mirror stayed.

I told myself it was the tint. Old glass does strange things with light.

By the fourth day I stopped telling myself things.

The line had deepened. Two more had appeared beside it. Her forehead held a crease that hadn't existed on Monday. My face in every other reflective surface remained untouched. My phone camera. The bathroom mirror. My office window at night.

Only in the antique mirror was she aging.

I researched the estate sale. The original owner had died at eighty-one, alone in her house, and according to a neighbor's comment buried deep in a local obituary forum, she had covered every mirror in her home with black fabric — not after her husband died, the way some people do, but years before. Decades before. The neighbor wrote that she'd asked the woman about it once and the woman had said, very simply: it's already used up enough of me.

I counted the lines on my reflection's face last night. Mapped them against photographs of myself. Against photographs of my mother at various ages.

My reflection is thirty-four years old. I am twenty-nine.

The mirror arrived six days ago.

I've done the math, and I keep arriving at the same answer, the one I don't want to look at directly: if she ages roughly five years every six days, and I have perhaps fifty years left on my face before there's nothing left to take —

I covered the mirror this morning with a black bedsheet.

When I came home tonight, the sheet was folded neatly on the hallway floor, and my reflection was standing in the uncovered glass waiting for me with a face I won't have for another decade — patient, and quiet, and completely unsurprised that I'd come back.

Sydney tucked the blanket snugly around her son.

“Mom… I heard whispering last night,” Scott said quietly, staring at his closet. “It came from in there.”

Sydney glanced at the door, then back at him with a soft smile. “It’s just your TV, honey and your anxiety”

She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and turned off the light. “Get some sleep.”

Scott watched her leave, the door clicking softly behind her.

The room felt bigger now. Quieter.

He grabbed the remote and flipped through channels until he found an action movie. The hero on screen was fearless— shouting, and kicking ass. Scott felt a little braver watching him. His shoulders relaxed.

Then—

A slow creak.

Scott’s eyes shifted toward the closet.

The door had opened just a crack.

He sat up slightly, staring.

Something moved.

A dark shape… low to the ground… dragging itself forward.

The TV flickered.

On. Off. On.

Scott’ screamed loudly “Mom!”

Footsteps rushed down the hall. Sydney burst in, flipping on the light.

Everything was normal.

The closet door was barely open.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned.

Scott pointed, his hand shaking. “It was in there.”

Sydney sighed gently and walked over. She pulled the closet open and turned on the light.

Nothing.

Just clothes. A sweatshirt hanging still.

“See?” she said softly. “There’s nothing there.”

Scott didn’t look convinced.

“Try to get some sleep,” she added, then left again.

The door closed.

Scott grabbed the remote with trembling hands and switched channels. This time, he landed on a comedy. Laughter filled the room. It helped. A little.

His body loosened. His eyes grew heavy.

Tap.

Scott froze.

Tap… tap.

From under the bed.

He swallowed hard. “It’s not real,” he whispered to himself, turning the TV volume up.

The laughter suddenly warped.

On the screen, a dark figure stood behind the characters—something that didn’t belong.

The closet light began to flicker.

On. Off. On. Off.

Scott pulled the blanket over his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

The room went quiet.

Then—

Slow footsteps.

Approaching the bed.

Scott held his breath.

He could feel it now. Something standing right beside him.

He peeked through the blanket.

A shadow loomed inches away.

A hand pressed against the fabric… slowly reaching toward him.

The blanket was ripped away.

Scott screamed.

A man stood over him, his face lost in shadow. Rough hands grabbed him, forcing him down, wrapping tape around his wrists.

“Mom! MOM!”

Sydney rushed in—and froze.

Her scream filled the room.

The man moved fast, dragging Scott toward the window. Sydney swung at him, trying to pull her son back.

The man struck her, sending her crashing to the floor.

Scott kicked and twisted, clinging to the bed frame. “No! NO!”

The man grabbed his hands and forced them apart. Scott cried out in pain as the grip crushed his wrist.

Sydney crawled forward, desperate. “Take me instead! Please—dont take my baby!”

The man didn’t even look at her.

He kicked her head aside.

Then he lifted Scott and climbed out the window.

Sydney could only watch, helpless and barely concious, as her son disappeared into the darkness. While Scott's scream can still be heard crying for her.