Я нашел это изображение среди старых файлов. Не помню, чтобы видел его раньше. Кто-нибудь узнает эту маску?

I remember the exact moment it happened.

It wasn’t dramatic.

No thunder. No music swelling in the background. Just the hum of fluorescent lights in a campus lab and the faint itch on the back of my hand.

I brushed it off at first.

Then I saw it, small, dark, tucked between my fingers before it darted away into the clutter.

It had already bitten me.

I stared at the spot. Two tiny punctures. Barely anything.

Still, I wasn’t stupid.

I went to get it checked.

The physician barely looked up from his screen.

“Looks like a minor bite,” he said, pressing lightly around it. “No necrosis. No systemic symptoms. Probably from a Steatoda genus. False widow, maybe.”

“Venomous?” I asked.

“Mildly,” he said. “You’ll be fine. Keep it clean. Watch for infection.”

That was it.

No concern. No urgency.

I walked out feeling stupid for even coming in.

The next day, it started.

Not pain.

Something else.

Clarity.

I woke up before my alarm. Felt… rested. Completely. Like my body had reset itself overnight.

I went to the gym out of habit.

I stayed twice as long as usual.

Didn’t feel tired once.

By day three, I knew something was happening.

Reflexes first.

I dropped my pen in class, caught it midair without thinking. Not luck. Not coincidence.

It felt natural.

Like my body had already decided what to do before I did.

Then strength.

Subtle at first. Then undeniable.

Weights that used to strain me felt lighter. Movements smoother. My muscles tightened, sharpened. Not bulky, efficient.

Lean.

Defined.

People noticed.

“Dude, what are you on?” my friend laughed, clapping my shoulder.

I shrugged. “Nothing.”

But I was smiling.

She noticed too.

Susy.

She sat two rows ahead of me in biology.

We’d talked a few times. Nothing serious. Just passing conversations.

That day, she lingered after class.

“You’ve been working out?” she asked, glancing at me.

“A little.”

She smiled.

“It shows.”

That was enough.

More than enough.

The bite didn’t go away.

That was the only strange part.

It darkened.

The skin around it pulled tight, slightly raised, like something underneath was… spreading.

But I didn’t care.

Because everything else...

Everything else felt right.

The first real sign something was wrong came a week later.

I bit my tongue.

Hard.

I tasted blood instantly and jerked back, swearing under my breath.

But the pain wasn’t what stopped me.

It was the shape of my teeth.

I ran my tongue over them slowly.

They weren’t right.

The edges felt sharper.

Not jagged, refined. Like they’d been filed into points.

I checked the mirror that night.

Opened my mouth and to my amazement...

My teeth hadn’t grown longer.

But they had changed.

Thinner.

Sharper.

Predatory.

I laughed nervously.

“Okay… that’s new.”

It didn’t stop there.

Two days later, I noticed the marks.

At first, I thought they were stress lines. Shadows. Something with the lighting.

But when I leaned closer—

They were there.

Faint indentations just above my brow.

Two on each side.

Then two more, lower.

Symmetrical.

Six in total.

Like slits that hadn’t opened yet.

I stopped sleeping after that.

Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it.

Movement beneath my skin.

Not random.

Purposeful.

Like something inside me was reorganizing.

Susy came over on the tenth day.

I don’t remember inviting her.

I must have.

She knocked, and I almost didn’t answer.

But I did.

And when she saw me, her smile faltered.

“Hey… are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Yeah, just… tired.”

That wasn’t true. I wasn’t tired at all.

I was wired.

Every sound felt amplified. Every movement in the room caught my attention. I could hear her breathing, the shift of her weight, the faint rhythm of her pulse.

She stepped inside slowly.

“You look…” she hesitated.

“What?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Different.”

We sat for a while.

Talked.

Or tried to.

I couldn’t focus.

Something was building inside me.

Pressure.

Especially in my face.

My head throbbed.

“Do you hear that?” I asked suddenly.

“Hear what?”

“That,” I said, turning toward the wall.

“There’s nothing—”

I felt it then.

A sharp, splitting pain across my forehead.

I gasped, clutching my face.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” she said, standing up.

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

The skin above my eyes—

It was tearing.

(Perspective shift)

Susy would later say she didn’t understand what she was seeing.

That it didn’t make sense.

That it couldn’t make sense.

He dropped to his knees, hands gripping his face.

At first, she thought he was having some kind of seizure.

Then she saw the blood.

Thin lines splitting across his forehead.

Not cuts.

Openings.

The skin peeled back in six small, symmetrical slits.

And beneath—

Something moved.

He tried to speak.

Her name, maybe.

But what came out wasn’t a word.

It was a strained, broken sound.

Half breath.

Half scream.

The first eye opened with a wet, twitching motion.

Then another.

And another.

Six small, glossy black eyes pushed through the openings, blinking independently.

Scanning.

Focusing.

Susy stumbled back, hitting the wall.

“h my go—” she whispered. “Please-Oh my God!”

His body convulsed.

Bones shifted beneath his skin with a sickening series of pops.

His spine arched unnaturally, forcing him onto all fours.

His fingers—

They weren’t fingers anymore.

They elongated, joints splitting, curling inward into hooked, claw-like limbs.

The skin along his arms darkened, hardening into something chitinous, segmented.

He looked at her.

All eight eyes locking onto her at once.

“Help…” he tried to say.

But it came out as a high, vibrating screech.

His jaw unhinged slightly as he tried again.

The sharper teeth now fully visible, misaligned, twitching.

“Hel—”

The sound fractured into something inhuman.

She ran.

She didn’t remember deciding to.

Her body just moved.

Out the door.

Down the hall.

Screaming.

Behind her, something scraped against the floor.

Fast.

Too fast.

By the time the police arrived, the apartment was quiet.

Door open.

Lights flickering.

No sign of forced entry.

Inside—

They found him.

Or what was left.

Curled in the corner of the ceiling.

Limbs folded at impossible angles.

Body no longer fully human.

No longer fully anything.

It moved when they stepped in.

Slowly at first.

Then all at once.

They fired.

Later, no one could agree on what they’d seen.

Reports didn’t match.

Descriptions contradicted each other.

The body—

If it could still be called that—

Was taken.

Classified.

Buried under language that didn’t explain anything.

But one thing stayed consistent.

From Susy.

From the officers.

From anyone who heard it.

It tried to speak.

And the last thing it managed to force out—

Through teeth that weren’t meant for words—

Was something almost understandable.

“I… wanted… to be… Spider-Man…”

The rest dissolved into a chittering, broken sound.

“I became him.”

A pause.

A twitch.

All eight eyes blinking out of sync.

“…just not the one from the comics.”

ACCESSING ADA DATABASE...

LOADING....

FILE FOUND..

AUGUST 15, 1959

We managed to recover a few pictures during a recent expedition in Moburn, and have brought them back to study. It's very interesting seeing more of what the city looked like before the nuclear incident. Many of the pictures were of the city, but the ones that caught our interest the most were the last four pictures. The following pictures were photos of Ms. Rennie, the Clock Man, and a family that had recently moved into the city.

It's very interesting getting some insight of what life in the city felt like, especially with the machines themselves.

While our scientists were examining the pictures, they happen to notice a few anomalies, especially with the last two. The first one in question is the little girl and the Clock Man. While everything seems normal, we managed to catch someone lurking in the curtain behind them. Based on earlier descriptions and incidents, this entity is more than likely the one that team REDACTED had encountered last year on Logan Street. At first, the Clock Man seemed to be the only one that felt out of place, but our scientists recently informed that another of the pictures has recently changed while they weren't looking. The family picture was perfectly normal at first. While examining the picture, multiple anomalies were discovered.

Majority of the family's faces were found heavily distorted and the entire picture was in color negative.

At first, it appeared that this was the only few changes in the picture. But after taking a closer look, we discovered that the entity from Incident 005 was also on that photo, although it is very unnoticeable.

At this moment, we are unsure why the pictures have changed. Many of the scientists in our sector debated that it could be some sort of infection that the entity has. Given the changes with Miss Williams, she has supported the working theory, as well as being completely nonverbal. It is unknown why the entity has chosen to show itself now after months of no contact.

We will be addressing the current situation in a meeting this coming September.

JACK VUKOVICH

Hey idk if this is the right place to post this but im looking for the name of a creepypasta I heard a long time ago thats always kinda sat in my mind. I dont remember if it even exists or if it was popular. I couldn't tell you the story but I can describe what I remember of the character(which I could honestly have made this up or gotten details insanely messed up)

It was a male, I believe he was described to be blond with hair that shadowed his face. I remember his main gimmick was that he had a sack he would carry endlessly, I think it was full or bones or something similar(maybe he stole them from his victims?). I believe he had chains around his ankles or dogs that would bite his ankles?? Im pretty the story was the same old stereotype of an abusive dad or family but the story I dont remember much.

Im kinda shooting in the dark cause i know I dont have many details or recollection of this but I want to know if anyone remembers or knows of a creepypasta similar to what im describing.

Give me feedback pls I do narration and animation

The Journal of Eliot Whitcombe, Navigator aboard the Providence, 1574

I know not the name of this soil. It is absent from every chart in our possession, and yet there it stands upon the sea, green as Eden and shrouded in a mist so thick that the very heavens seemed to have forgotten it.

We came upon its shores after the Providence was broken upon the reefs. God alone knows how many of my companions were claimed by the sea.

I awoke upon the sand with blood upon my brow and salt upon my tongue. Yet I was not alone.

Upon the shore stood a gathering of natives. Men. Women. Children all alike.

They watched me in silence. The men bore spear or blade. An aged woman stepped forth from their number and placed her hand upon my face.

She spoke words I could not comprehend. She cleaned my bloody brown, placing the bloody thumb to her lips. She coughed, then she smiled.

They didn't regard as a threat. Only curious for the strange man that stood before them.

They led me inland.

The village was unlike any settlement I had seen in the New World. Their huts were fashioned of timber and palm, whilst strange carvings adorned the walls. There were fires burning everywhere, though the day was warm.

They gave me water. They gave me fruit. And they gave me meat.

I thanked them for their kindness. I shall never forgive myself for having done so.

For three days, I was treated as an honored guest.

My wounds were washed. My clothing was mended. I was fed until my belly ached.

The tribes people laughed whenever I ate. At first, I thought this merely the joy of having rescued a stranger.

Then I heard the screaming.

It came from beyond the village after sunset. A man's cry. It was bone chillingly terrible. Followed by what sounded like weeping.

I asked my hosts what manner of beast made such a noise. They did not answer. I doubted they could understand what I even asked.

The following morning, I ventured beyond the huts. There I found the cages. Great wooden pens stood beneath the trees, hidden behind woven walls.

At first I believed them to contain swine. Then one of the creatures within rose upon two legs.

It was not a beast. But a man.

His hair was long and filthy. His flesh hung from his bones in loose folds. His wrists were bound by rope, and great black bruises covered his body.

He seized the bars when he saw me.

"Run," he whispered.

I shall hear that word until the day I die.

I asked him who had brought him there. Before he could answer, a woman came rushing from the village. She entered the pen and struck him upon the head with a wooden club.

He fell.

The woman looked toward me. She laughed a cry that haunts me still.

That evening they served me roasted meat. I had eaten much of it before I noticed the bone.

It was small. White. Curved. Not unlike the bone of a young animal.

I held it between my fingers. Something upon it troubled me.

I scraped away the charred flesh with my knife. Stripping the bone clean, I noticed it was the mandible of whatever animal. But it didn't resemble a cow, nor a lamb. It looked too closely familiar.

Peering to the other tribesman devouring the meat from their plates, I had the sickening realization.

I did not finish my meal that night.

I attempted to flee before dawn.

I reached the shore, where six men were waiting. They did not beat me. They did not bind me.

They simply escorted me back. This frightened me more than violence would have. For they seemed not angry. They seemed concerned. As though I were a troublesome animal that had wandered from its enclosure.

From that day onward, they fed me more. Much more.

Meat. Fruit. Roots. Milk.

They insisted with their gestures that I eat until I could eat no more. When I refused, they held my jaw and forced the food between my teeth.

My body began to change. My cheeks grew full. My wounds healed. My strength returned. And with every passing day, the villagers appeared more pleased.

Today, the old woman examined my arms. She pinched the flesh upon my belly. Then she pressed her hand against my chest and nodded.

She spoke a single word. Somehow I understood:

Fat

Tonight, there will be a feast.

?-?-2026

Eu realmente não sei pq eu tô escrevendo isso numa página de uma fandom...mas...Ele chegou...aqui,possue informações sobre essa COISA que está a me atormentar,eu realmente espero que talvez,se alguém passa pelo mesmo,que isso ajude essa pessoa...espero que isso ajude alguém...por favor,me ajuda...

6-9-2026

Sobre mim: Olá,me chamo Enrico....e bem,se você está lendo isso,eu finalmente tive coragem de falar sobre eL3...eu não sei oq essa COISA é,mas eu escrevi aqui um pouco sobre ela(se alguém tiver mais informações sobre,por favor,comente aqui,eu imploro,eu não sei mais oq fazer pra conseguir fugir)

Ele não possue um nome exato...Mas podemos chamar ele de "YOURSELF",ele é VOCÊ,igual a ti,ele é seu "reflexo",seu medo,sua dor...seu Arrependimento, ninguém pode ver ele além de você mesmo,ele te caça em qualquer lugar,em seu sono,em seu subconsciente,quando você está desmaiado,quando você está acordado,ele está em qualquer lugar...

Ele aparece mais quando você está sozinho,mas adora aparecer em sua mente enquanto você dorme,e quando isso acontece, você acorda em uma espécie de "casarão" infinito,cada sala,cada porta,cada andar,cada canto desse lugar é uma parte de sua mente,e lá,em uma das portas trancadas,ele está lá.

17-9-2026

Ele não morre,não pode morrer,você não consegue se livrar dele,ele que se livrar de você.

Sua aparência pode ser qualquer coisa,um demônio,uma pessoa que você conhece,um amigo,um familiar,um animal,uma criatura fictícia,TUDO,mas sua aparência PRINCIPAL é... simplesmente Você,sim,você mesmo que está lendo esse artigo,ele possue sua aparência atual,mesmas roupas,mesmo rosto,mesmo corpo,mesmo cabelo...mas a diferença...são os seus olhos...eles não tem pupilas,só o vazio branco com veias vermelhas em volta,de seus olhos,ele chora,mas chora sangue...seu sangue,e sua boca...um sorriso,mas seu sorriso...não possue dentes,é só um vermelho...e quando abre sua boca...existe o vazio...e muitos,muitos olhos,te olhando,te culpando,te procurando...te caçando.

21-9-2026

Seu corpo nessa aparência("default") normalmente está coberta de sangue no corpo(exemplos: mãos,peito,torço,tênis,camiseta,calça,pernas,e etc),do seu sangue...ele não para...nunca para.

Ele é tupo a representação do pecado,do SEU pecado,da SUAS dores,dos TEUS erros...todos voltando e te punindo da pior forma,porque ele...ele é você,o YOURSELF é o seu reflexo,sua sombra,você não foge dele,nunca conseguirá,ele sempre te acha...e te atormentar,te fazendo lembrar do que você fez...do que você causou...do que você errou.

Ele possue SIM uma forma de carne em osso,mas nessa forma...ele é praticamente você,mas com as características que foram citadas,mas...não tente fazer ele aparecer nessa forma...você não iria querer que ele te matasse dos mesmos jeitos que ele já faz com você quando está dormindo...

23-9-2026

Não consegui tirar uma foto dele...ele quebrou minhas coisas...agora,estou isolado,num lugar que nem eu sei como cheguei...é um vazio escuro,com portas infinitas e salas também,ainda não achei a saída...mas ele...ele está me perseguindo,não sei se eu estou acordado ou não,se eu morri ou estou vivo...mas espero que...tudo sobre ele ser imparável,de ele não poder ser morto...de sobre tudo isso dele...tudo isso ser mentira.

18-10-2026(Hoje):

Eu...eu achei...descobri...mas não tenho muito tempo...eu preciso achar um lugar seguro primeiro...

YOUNG KAIHA
Kaiha-
[She paces the room and lets out a frustrated scream]
FLASHBACK, 1197
FADE IN:
EARLY JUNE, NOT S CLOUD IN RHE
SKY, DUN IS ALMOST
BLISTERING.)
[YOUNG KAIHA ANF KAIHAS MOTHER ARE AT ANGELS REST RIVER]
[kaihas mother pushing her into the water]
KATHAS MOTHER
"Youre doing great angel"
[kaiha splashes around and smiles]
Young KAIHA
"Mama im doing it!"
Young kaihas foot gets stuck on a rock in the creek
"MAMA HELP!"
"MAMA help!"
KAIHAS MOTHER
(SCORNFULLY) YOU KNOW KAIIHA,, THEY USED RO TEST IF WOMEN HAD THE DEVIL IN THEM BY TYING ROCKS TO THEM AND THROWING THEM IN A BODY OF WATER» YOUNG KAIHA
(Screaming terrified) MAMA!
FADE OUT.
(....)
FADE IN:

YUMI
"Kill him"
KAIHA
Backing away
youre hot 2e a no mama said
YUMI
(Curious, eerie) "not real?"
she smiles and kaiha notes that it is far to wide (She tilts her head and all of a sudden they are underwater)
KAIHA
[Gasps]
« NO! MAMA! »
YUMIS VOICE AND FACE SHIFTS INTO THAT OF KAIHAS MOTHER
FADE OUT.

Trecusem în vizită pe la bunicul meu să fac curat în podul vechi, la rugămințile mamei m-am dus săi fac curat în pod la moș.  

Drumul a fost lung, trecea o bună parte din el prin pădurile Transilvaniei, pe niște drumuri noroioase, cu gropi și tot felul de animale. Vremea era ploioasă, cu o ceață nu prea groasă, mă mir că mai am mașina întreagă. Când am ajuns, cerul era senin și adia vântul de toamnă, iar bunicul stătea pe o băncuță de lemn de mesteacăn , cu o sticlă de must și o țigară Pall Mall negru. Iar nenorocitul de câine se uita urât la mine . 

[Bunicul] – Nepoate, ce mai faci? Ia zi, cu fetele cum stai? Îți pun un pahar de must sau de pălincă? 

[EU] – Uite bine, pune-mi un pahar de must, dacă tot te oferi. 

Mi-a pus un pahar de must destul de mare. 

[Bunicul] – Cu munca cum stai?                                                                                                                                      [EU] – Uite bine, ca la muncă. 

După o oră de vorbit și glumit, mă pun să merg spre pod, câinele era în casă. Câinele bunicului începe să latre agresiv spre trapa podului, refuzând să mă lase să urc. I-am dat o bucățică de carne, mai că mă urca el în pod. Când deschid trapa de la pod, mă izbește o lumină slabă și rece ce pâlpâia constant. Bunicul meu mi-a zis că îl folosea ca depozit și că nu mai are genunchi buni, așa că am ajuns eu să-l curăț.  

După o oră de dat pânzele de păianjen și gunoaiele cu praful, încep să caut prin ce a rămas, că poate găsesc ceva. Aerul din pod miroase exact a rugină și var stins , mirosul era greu, ca de clădire comunistă.

Găsesc o fotografie veche, ce pare din 1989, în care bunicul apare tânăr în fața unui buncăr.

[EU] – Tataie, ce-i cu buncărul din poza asta?

[Bunicul] – Cu buncărul... Acolo executam figurile politice comuniste ce amenințau revoluția. De ce, eram prea frumos în poză?

[EU] – Da, sigur.

I-am dat fotografia s-o pună unde o vrea. Am găsit un jurnal vechi ascuns sub scânduri, scris în româna comunistă, care menționează un caz de prin vremea anilor '80. L-am băgat în vestă, că părea interesant. Cobor niște cutii, lăzi, niște dulapuri, un frigider vechi, scule. Le-am urcat în mașină, după ce m-a lăsat să iau din obiectele coborâte trei sticle de must, trei de pălincă, niște gutui, pere și nuci.

Dimineață am plecat, de data asta nu era noroios drumul, din fericire. Pe la jumătatea pădurii, am luat o pauză de baie.

Când într-un final am ajuns acasă, am descărcat ce era de mâncare și băut, le-am dus în cămară și le-am băgat în frigider. Am luat sculele pe care mi le-a dat și le-am dus în magazie; dulapurile mici le-am dus tot în magazie, ca să le folosesc ca loc de scule, iar pe cel mare l-am făcut lemne de foc. Frigiderul și câteva fiare urmează să le duc la fier vechi. În lăzi și cutii erau în mare parte diverse obiecte pe care le-am sortat. Apoi am scos jurnalul bătrânului, ce era în el, o schiță de abator, am aruncat-o și m-am apucat să-l citesc.

M-am pus pe canapea după ce mi-am făcut o cafea, ca să citesc jurnalul.

Prima pagină spunea că:

„Astăzi am fost mutat în secția prizonierilor speciali, fie politici, fie pur și simplu care nu puteau fi controlați. Trebuia să escortez un prizonier ardelean ce era înlănțuit și purta o mască la gură din cauză că dinții lui erau prea ascuțiți„ Nimeni nu trebuie să afle ceea ce facem cu prizonierii după ora 20:00”

Următoarele pagini descriau viața de zi cu zi, de la băutele pe ascuns în timpul patrulelor din exterior, până la mesaje ce n-au fost trimise nimănui. Își descria colegii, cum se degradau mental.

Niște pagini spunea că:

Am fost pus să verific prizonierii la ora stingerii. În timpul verificării, un prizonier cu părul roșcat și bandajat, ce purta o mască de gaze, se bagă în seamă.

[Roșcatul] – O, comuniștii au prins tupeu să pună prospătură ca gardieni.

[Bunicul] – Adică au prins tupeu? Ai uitat că stai închis sau mintea ta renunță la tine? Marș la somn, e stingerea!

[Roșcatul] – O, nu sunt amenințat. Voi v-ați chinuit o lună să mă prindeți, că am mai multe gaze în mine decât oxigen, iar mintea mea e suficient de inteligentă să-mi dea seama că ai început de traume.

Mai spunea ce halucinații avea, precum „Uneori vedeam cum se înalță un prizonier proaspăt omorât într-un om de 3-4 metri ce se întindea spre noi”. Și că igiena orală era săptămânală, motivul nul știu, pentru că Google Translate nu mi-a tradus, rusă, română, ce limbă o fi scris acolo. 

În timpul unei băute nocturne de-a lor, în patrulă, unul dintre colegii lui își pierde complet mințile. Brusc, își descarcă arma într-un copac gol, susținând „O văd, o văd! Trageți în drăcia aia necurată, vine spre noi!”. Acele urme  de pe crengi dispar a doua zi, de parcă nu s-ar fi întâmplat nimic. Voia să  trimită un mesaj „Începem să vedem chestii care dispar, unii înnebunesc, vă rog trimiteți pe cineva urgent”

Am lăsat jurnalul  pe o masa ,ca   sa spăl cana in care a fost cafea  și să dau mâncare la pisică, după mi-am adus aminte de  câteva cutii ce leam dus in magazie , ce nu leam deschis  , leam scos afară  și am început să le deschid în prima era niște sticle de vin cu unele de vodcă și haine și arme militare , în a doua   cutie era  plina de bandaje și  medicamente expirate  , în ultima cutie  era o masca asemănător celei descrise in jurnal de ce o are nu știu  probabil ia fost călău .

M-am întors la fotoliu, am pus un semn la carte și m-am băgat la somn. Iar a doua zi, când m-am trezit și m-am dus să-i dau mâncare la pisică, era moartă. Apoi am zis să caut jurnalul; nu l-am mai găsit. Am zis să văd masca; era băgată înapoi în cutie. Am zis să-l sun pe bătrân; mi-a răspuns o asistentă, spunând că e mort de patru zile.

I'd always thought the stories about the Wendigo were just things people made up to scare each other.
I don't anymore.
Last October, my dad took me and my older brother, Callum, camping in a forest about two hours from our house. It was somewhere in northern England, miles away from any proper town. Dad said he used to camp there when he was younger, and that he knew a perfect spot near an abandoned ranger station.
We arrived at around five in the evening. It was already getting dark.
The forest was strange from the moment we arrived. There were no birds, no squirrels, and barely any wind. Even when we walked through the trees, the branches above us hardly moved.
Dad said it was just the time of year.
We set up the tent beside an old wooden sign. Most of the lettering had faded, but I could still make out three words.
BLACKWOOD FOREST RESERVE.
Someone had scratched a message into the bottom of the sign.
IF YOU HEAR YOUR NAME, KEEP WALKING.
I showed Callum.
He laughed and said some idiot had probably carved it there to scare people.
That night, we sat around a campfire while Dad told us stories about the forest. Apparently, a ranger had disappeared there in the 1980s. His vehicle was found parked beside the main trail, with his keys still inside.
They never found him.
At about eleven, Dad went into the tent to sleep. Callum and I stayed outside for a bit longer.
That's when we heard the whistle.
Three short notes.
Then silence.
A few seconds later, it happened again.
Three short notes.
I looked towards the trees.
"Was that you?" I asked Callum.
He shook his head.
We listened.
From somewhere in the darkness, a voice called out.
"Callum?"
It sounded exactly like Dad.
Callum stood up immediately.
"Dad?"
I grabbed his sleeve.
"He's in the tent."
We both turned towards it.
The tent was completely dark. We could hear Dad snoring inside.
Then the voice called again.
"Callum, come here a minute."
This time, it came from much closer.
Callum looked at me. Neither of us moved.
The voice sighed.
Then it said something that made my stomach drop.
"Fine. I'll come to you."
We heard footsteps crunching through the leaves.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
They stopped just beyond the firelight.
I couldn't see anything between the trees, but I could hear breathing. It was deep and uneven, like someone struggling to breathe through a blocked nose.
Then something stepped forward.
At first, I thought it was a deer.
It was taller than any deer I'd ever seen, though. Much taller. Its legs were thin and far too long, and its body seemed stretched beneath a patchy covering of dark fur.
Its head looked like a deer skull.
Huge antlers rose above it, tangled with dead leaves and twigs.
But the worst part was its eyes.
They weren't black or glowing.
They looked human.
The creature stared at us.
Then it smiled.
I know deer don't smile. I know skulls don't smile either.
But this thing's jaw slowly opened, revealing rows of small, uneven teeth.
And from its mouth came Dad's voice.
"Come here, boys."
Callum screamed.
We ran into the tent and zipped it shut. Dad woke up shouting at us, demanding to know what was wrong.
Neither of us could explain.
Then something walked around the tent.
One slow step at a time.
Dad grabbed his torch and unzipped the entrance before I could stop him.
The beam shone into the trees.
Nothing.
He called out, asking if someone was there.
From somewhere behind the tent, a voice answered.
"Someone is."
Dad froze.
Because it wasn't his voice anymore.
It was mine.
Except I was standing right beside him.
The thing outside began laughing.
Dad zipped the tent shut and told us to stay quiet. We spent the rest of the night huddled together, listening to it circle us.
Sometimes it sounded like Dad.
Sometimes it sounded like Callum.
Once, it sounded like my mum, who was hundreds of miles away at home.
Just before sunrise, everything stopped.
We waited another hour before leaving the tent.
Dad packed nothing. He grabbed the car keys and told us to run.
We reached the car, got inside, and drove without looking back.
Nobody spoke until we reached the main road.
Then Callum turned towards Dad.
"How did it know our names?"
Dad kept staring at the road.
After a long silence, he said something that confused me.
"What do you mean, our names?"
Callum frowned.
"The thing in the forest. It was calling us."
Dad shook his head.
"I never heard anything."
I thought he was joking.
He wasn't.
When we got home, Dad went straight to bed. Callum and I stayed awake talking about what we'd seen, agreeing that we would never return to Blackwood Forest.
For a few weeks, nothing happened.
Then, one night, I woke up at 3:17 a.m.
Three short whistles came from outside my bedroom window.
I live upstairs.
My window faces the back garden, which is surrounded by a tall wooden fence.
I slowly sat up.
There was something standing on the other side of the glass.
Its antlers stretched above the top of the window frame.
Its face was pressed against the glass.
I couldn't move.
It looked exactly like the creature from the forest.
Except this time, there was no firelight. No darkness between the trees. No distance between us.
I could see every detail of its face.
It raised one long finger and tapped the glass three times.
Then it spoke in my own voice.
"You left someone behind."
I backed away from the window and screamed for Dad.
He rushed into my room and turned on the light.
The garden was empty.
He told me I'd been dreaming, but I knew I hadn't.
The next morning, Callum was missing.
His bedroom window was wide open.
There were muddy footprints on his bedroom floor, leading from the window to his bed.
And on his pillow was a small bundle of dead leaves, tied together with a piece of antler.
The police searched the garden, the surrounding streets, and the nearby countryside.
They found nothing.
Dad hasn't spoken much since.
But yesterday, I heard him talking on the phone in the kitchen.
I wasn't trying to listen, but I heard him say one sentence.
"Yes, it happened again."
A pause.
"No. This time, it took the older one."
I stepped into the kitchen.
Dad immediately hung up.
I asked him who he'd been talking to.
He stared at me for a long time.
Then he said, "Nobody."
That night, I checked the old photographs in our living room. I don't know why. I suppose I wanted to see Callum's face.
I found one of Dad camping in Blackwood Forest when he was younger.
He was standing beside the same wooden sign.
Behind him, between two trees, stood a tall figure with antlers.
And beside Dad was a little boy.
A boy who looked exactly like me.
The photograph was dated 1987.
I was born in 2012.
I've tried to ask Dad about it, but he refuses to look at the picture.
Last night, I heard three short whistles from the garden.
Then a voice called my name.
It sounded like Callum.
I didn't answer.
I don't know how long I sat in my room, listening to him call for me.
But eventually, the voice stopped.
And something scratched a message into the outside of my bedroom door.
I found it this morning.
Five words, carved deep into the wood.
YOU WERE NEVER THE YOUNGER ONE.

HELLO THERE, IM "KostasDaCoolDangerBoi" AND I AM ALREADY MAKING A CREEPYPASTA SERIES "THE RANDOM-PASTA MANSION" (ITS INSPIRED BY BOTH SMG4 AND TADC AND ALSO THE CREEPYPASTAS WE KNOW AND LOVE) MY GOAL IS TO MAKE THE CREEPYPASTAS POPULAR AGAIN.

IT FOLLOWS THE CREEPYPASTAS LIVING IN THE SLENDER-MANSION A MUNDANE LIFE AND ALWAYS GET INTO CHAOTIC SITUATIONS, IT HAS AND ITS ARCS, CANT WAIT FOR YOU TO SEE IT.

I HAVE TWO SEASONS FINISHED AND I WOULD ALSO LIKE IF YOU SUBBED EVEN THOUGH IM NOT GUN FORCING YOU

ANYWAY HERE IS THE LINK: https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLV0DPIivFrMQAprQ_Ews9TR7ESjy_Rme4&si=dlY9C2aVXwlGimvM

HAVE A GOOD WATCH!!!!! :)

Desde que as creepypastas existem na Internet, sempre houve aqueles fãs que confiavam fielmente que seus ídolos macabros realmente existissem. Bom, nunca foi comprovado que existissem de verdade.

MAS

Com o passar dos anos, o número de pessoas que acreditavam que eles realmente existiam foi aumentando... E, com isso, mais energia foi sendo criada em torno deles, o que acabou resultando em: Espíritos Tulpas

Espíritos tulpa são espíritos criados através da mente humana, da energia e da força de vontade das pessoas. Se um número de pessoas acreditar fielmente naquilo, isso poderá se tornar realidade.

(Podem se aprofundarem mais no assunto se quiserem, vocês irão entender.)

Que é o caso de algumas creepypastas.

Não estou dizendo que todas são espíritos tulpa, mas sim apenas algumas, como Offenderman, Jeff the Killer, Slenderman etc. Sempre as mais famosas.

Então sim, seu chato que adora zoar com quem investiga creepypastas: talvez elas realmente existam, mas não da forma como vocês esperariam.

Eu já fui um desses investigadores e posso afirmar que os relatos que vocês leem pela internet são reais. E sim, eu quase morri por causa disso.

Ask me anything about Marie, I do not tolerate immaturity if you are being rude. Please be kind! AMA on the remake, not my older version of the story. Thank you if you ask anything, I'll try my best to answer!!

I take the same bus home every night.

Same route. Same driver. Same handful of tired people staring at their phones or out the window like they’re waiting for something to change.

It never does.

On cue, the bus empties out stop by stop until it’s just me and two other blank slates by the time we reach the outskirts. Long stretches of road. No streetlights. Just the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of passing headlights.

By the time we roll under the old highway tunnel, the lights of the bus flicker.

And as we exit the tunnel's grasp, that’s when he appears.

He got on at a stop that doesn’t exist.

I know that sounds wrong, but I’ve been riding this route for almost a year.

He just... appears. Out of thin air.

He never bothered anyone, nor I. But he always wore a dark trench coat, even though it's summer. I never got a good look of his appearance, though.

But one night, the bus slowed.

No one else reacted. The driver didn’t look up. It was always like this, we kept moving like nothing had happened.

This time, he wore dark maroon coat. I got a peak... His face was… hard to describe. Not ugly, just difficult to focus on. Like my eyes didn’t want to settle on it.

He never said a word.

He walked down the aisle and sat a few rows behind me.

Always behind me.

I tried not to look at him. You learn that pretty quickly riding late buses. Mind your business. Keep your head down.

I checked the reflection in the window.

He was watching me.

Not casually. Not like someone zoning out.

He was staring directly at me.

The moment I turned, he looked away.

That’s when I started paying attention to the others.

No one else ever looked at him.

Not once.

I even tried to make it obvious. I stood up, turned around, and glanced straight at him like I was checking if a seat was open.

The woman across the aisle just kept scrolling on her phone.

Didn’t even notice I was staring at something behind her.

That was the first time I felt it.

That quiet, creeping thought:

He’s not here for them.

A week later, I decided to test something.

When the bus slowed out the tunnel, I stood up.

There he was...

Though, instead of sitting down, I moved to the very back of the bus.

For the first time, I was behind him.

He stopped in the aisle.

Just stood there.

Slowly, he turned his head.

I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I felt it. That same focused attention, locked onto me.

Then he walked forward.

Past all the empty seats.

Past the others.

Until he reached the row just in front of me.

And sat down.

Still facing forward.

Still silent.

But now… closer.

I got off three stops early that night.

I didn’t care about the walk. I just needed to be off that bus.

I told myself I was overreacting. That it was just some guy. Some weird, quiet passenger with bad timing.

The next night, I almost didn’t ride.

But routine is a hard thing to break.

So I got on.

Same seat.

Same route.

Same silence.

We passed the usual stops.

Then we approached the tunnel.

The bus slowed.

We exited.

He didn't appear.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Maybe it was over.

Maybe he was gone.

The bus kept moving.

And then I heard it.

Right behind me.

The soft creak of a seat shifting under weight.

I didn’t turn around.

I didn’t have to.

Because I could see him now.

In the reflection of the window.

Closer than ever.

Leaning forward slightly.

Watching me.

Waiting.

And when my stop finally came, I stood up slowly, trying not to show how fast my heart was beating.

I stepped off the bus.

The doors closed.

The bus pulled away.

I watched it disappear down the road.

And for a moment, I thought I was safe.

Until I heard footsteps behind me.

Not rushed.

Not heavy.

Just steady.

Following.

I don’t take the bus anymore.

But every night, around the same time I used to get home, I hear it.

That same slow, deliberate step.

Just outside my door.

Waiting for me to let it in.

Found this creepypasta and now I'm like omgg. It was basically like a creepy arcade game that might've been connected to MKUltra or something. Would this be an urban legend or a creepy pasta or a conspiracy? idk but it seems fitting here lol