Scary stories (dont read if you are easily scared)

[Sweetart]

I read CreepyPastas, but I never watch the videos because they scare me. I watched the Lavender Town Tune video and was like, "NOPE, NO MOAR VIDEOS FOR ME."

They have videos?!?!?!??!?!?!?!??!??!??!

[Nonexsitent]

Can someone put the link to CreepyPastas! I really want to check it out now... sounds really cool!

[amarok.]

Can someone put the link to CreepyPastas! I really want to check it out now... sounds really cool!

Yes, I would likie to see the site too! (my search turned up nopthing)

[Zeee]

creepypasta index (aka where all the stories are)

^^

[frobischer]

Whispers

I’m posting this tonight in the hope that it will clear up the misunderstandings surrounding the disappearance of Debra Lindsay Caine, at the risk of my personal ridicule. Sticks and stones and all that. None of it will matter after tonight. Consider this my one pathetic attempt at an apology, if nothing else. It’s sort of my fault what happened.

Even in her heyday, internet blogger Sugarcaine was just another web comedian. She was funnier than average and certainly skilled with a pen, but otherwise no more remarkable than the rest. For years the circumstances surrounding her disappearance were only occasionally mentioned, and only in the most obscure threads on a couple of forums. She would’ve been forgotten forever if those city workers hadn’t found the tape recorder last Monday.

Sugarcaine’s true identity was a boyishly cute redhead named Debra Lindsay Caine. Her sister Payton described her as, “…a bag fulla fists, nails, and opinions just looking for an excuse to burst open on somebody, nourished by beer and spite since our Papa died in ’91.”

Debra unintentionally began her career as a humor blogger when she let her friends talk her into setting up a MySpace account. She thought blogs were self-absorbed, whiny, and without substance, and thus used her MySpace page to parody the asinine ramblings of her peers. After a while she graduated to belittling popular culture and occasionally reviewing books, comics, movies, and whatever hate mail she received from her growing reader base.

She quickly realized people enjoyed her writing, and by mid-2005 she’d ditched her MySpace account and set up her own humor site, Sugarcaine Junction. Despite Debra’s more-than-decent writing the site was mediocre at best. Most ‘net junkies likely never knew she existed, much less that she’d vanished and possibly been murdered.

Until the city workers found the tape.

Sugarcaine Junction never failed to celebrate whatever holidays and festivals came its way, and its seasonal articles were usually the most eagerly anticipated. Debra composed surprisingly witty drinking songs for her Oktoberfest review, and a touching poem for Father’s Day that she refused to talk about afterward. For her 2005 Christmas rant she wrote a series of parodied Bible passages that broke her weekly hate mail record overnight.

Back then I was known as DeadAtFifty and counted among Sugarcaine’s regular readers. During the first week of October 2006 I suggested that she spend the night in the Daley family’s haunted house and write about the experience for her Halloween article. She announced to her readers that I was a child and a moron. I added a one-thousand-dollar prize to the mix. She eagerly accepted.

On the last week of October Debra announced she would make the hour-long drive to the Daley house for a “spooky sleepover”. She embarked on the evening of the 29th, encouraging her readers to “Stay tuned for the details of my thousand-dollar journey through the haunted Daley house!” I had every intention of awarding her the money, and I never would’ve mentioned the Daleys if I had known what would happen.

Debra always researched her subject before or after her “journeys” (as she called any experience she blogged about — “Stay tuned for the dirt on my journey through the latest Scorsese flick”), if only to make her praise/mockery of it all the more complete. In her apartment the police found stacks of newspaper clippings about the Daley family as far back as 1960: praise for Kevin Daley and the lives he saved as a firefighter; his marriage to sweetheart Naomi Welch in 1970; the birth of their son, Jeff in 1971; Jeff’s growing fame as an abstract artist at only twelve months of age; the rumors that Naomi deliberately dropped her son down the stairs and caused his borderline autism; and of course, the fruitless search for the bodies when the family vanished in 1982.

The bulk of the articles were testimonies from neighbors and friends about the last they saw of the Daleys. Jeff’s performance at school dwindled, but the work he produced in art class was as detailed as ever, depicting macabre realms of twisted abstract shapes and looming shadows — imagery he hadn’t produced since he was a toddler. He claimed that the “whisperers” made him draw these things. His only explanation for a “whisperer” was, “they follow me around my house — I can’t see them, but I know they’re there.”

I don’t think Jeff Daley was dreaming: I think his subconscious was a doorway to other worlds, and maybe his mother knew it and tried to kill him. If that’s the case, I wish she’d been just a little more persistent.

Kevin’s coworkers described him as “nervous, constantly on edge, like he was being followed by a lunatic and couldn’t shake him.” Naomi, normally known to greet her tavern’s patrons with bright smiles and warm hellos, seemed to have crawled into a shell and refused to come out. She took frequent bathroom breaks, only to curl up inside a toilet cubicle and cry with her hands over her ears. And then one day Jeff never showed at school, and his parents never showed at work. They’d vanished into thin air; and according to their neighbors, they didn’t go quietly.

Other articles described strange but seemingly unremarkable sights and sounds on the abandoned Daley property from 1989 to 2004. A few of those articles were so strange they were considered hoaxes or gross exaggerations.

A neighbor’s dog ran barking under the Daley porch. When it returned it spent the next two days whining and cowering and howling miserably for no reason. One morning the owners woke up and found the dog missing. It was never seen again.

A young couple claimed a silhouette in the shadows of the front yard whispered something at them as they walked past the house late one night. They couldn’t tell if there was someone there or not, and when they continued their walk the shape stalked them for several blocks before vanishing altogether.

Several mailmen gave identical accounts of hearing movement and gibbering voices inside the house while on their routes. One assumed it was the local pranksters and alerted the police. They never found anyone inside.

Earlier this week the city workers were preparing the house for demolition when they discovered the recorder under an old desk. Remembering the house’s history of missing persons, they turned it over to the police. The officer who received it — a friend of mine whose name will go unmentioned — had at one time been a Sugarcaine fan. I spent an entire evening listening to the tape at his place. To help spread this story around the web I’ve prepared a transcript of the recording for my own site, which you can read below.

*

[Tape begins with fifteen seconds of silence. Broken by husky female voice.]

“Don’t think I’ve ever been to this side of town before. Had to stop at a diner and get directions ‘cos I managed to get my stupid a** lost. Supposed to be an hour long drive, but it’ll be close to midnight by the time I find this dump.

“Oh, I told the lady I was coming to visit an old friend who lived in the Daleys’ neighborhood and she was happy to help me find my way. Imagine I won’t be well received if I go around telling everybody I’m spending my weekend breaking into other people’s houses. Even if the Daleys are too dead to give a s**t.”

[Silence for eight seconds. A sigh.]

“I feel silly going through with this. On the plus side I’ll get to pay my rent for the next month.”

*

“It is now…eleven p.m. on the dot. Took me forever to find the stupid house. Kept turning down the wrong streets. Hard to miss it once you find the right one. The front yard is a jungle of wiry vines and three-foot grass infested with species of insects never before seen by man. You can’t even see the front door from the street this late at night ‘cos the shadows gulped it up.

“Parked two blocks away and walked. Gonna find a window to climb through. Hopefully won’t need to pick the back door ‘cos that’ll take forever. More as it develops.”

*

[Hollow footsteps on old wooden boards. A series of distorted thuds as the recorder rattles violently. Silence for sixteen seconds.]

“Tripped. Ow…It’s pitch black in here. Where’s my damn—?”

[Quiet shuffling for the next minute, and more footsteps. Debra releases an exhausted breath. Tape rattles slightly.]

“Okay, I’m in. My camp is set up in the…I guess this was the office. There’s a dusty old desk next to the window I just climbed through and a bookcase to the right of the door. Both are bare. I’m about to take my tour of the house. Camera ready, although this place isn’t much to look at. Keeping the flash off, so the pics might need to be tweaked when I get back. I ought to keep the flashlight off and just let my eyes adjust, but…yeah, I’m not gonna do that.”

[Two minutes of silence apart from footsteps and the occasional electronic shutter sound of a digital camera taking pictures. A cough.]

“The house is a really roomy two-story deal. Oh, there you are, you elusive stairs…The carpet’s been all torn up except for one corner of the living room, so the floor’s all crusty wooden boards.”

[Footsteps. Loud, human-like shriek of pain from the rusty hinges of a door. Debra lets out a startled gasp, curses.]

“…a moldy bathroom untouched since nineteen eighty-two…”

[Several coughs as the camera clicks. More squeaking hinges, significantly quieter. More camera clicks.]

“Ugh, damn wolf spiders everywhere!”

[Seven minutes pass with footsteps, camera clicks, and Debra’s coughs the only sounds; halfway through, hollow thunks of boots on wooden stairs, and footsteps change to loud, unhealthy creaks. Now and then Debra makes various comments on the house’s layout.]

“[unintelligible muttering] —dust in this place is murdering me. Second floor is rickety as hell. Here’s hoping the building doesn’t collapse on me in the night.”

[Hollow thunks again as she returns to the first floor. At the ten minute mark, dead silence for approximately twenty seconds. Debra exhales.]

“I think that’s it for the tour. I’m off to sleep with the spiders.”

[Silence for two minutes. Debra whispers to herself inquisitively. Wooden clunking.]

“Found a loose board in the office floor. ‘Previously-pried-up’ loose. I’ll have to check that out tomorrow morning.”

[Clomp of steel-toe boots carelessly tossed onto wooden floor. Rustling of thick cloth. Coughing.]

“Ah, god, I can’t breathe in this place…Awright, time for bed. We’ll finish up our notes tomorrow. G’night!”

*

[Recorder rattles. Debra begins to say something, only gets the first syllable before going quiet again. Silence for another minute.]

“There’s something in here…”

[Pit-pat of bare feet. Silence. Door creaks shut. Rustling.]

“F****n’ rats. I knew it. I hear ‘em scuttling in the living room walls. I shoulda brought a cot.”

*

[Exasperated sigh.]

“Okay, well, I won’t be sleeping tonight after all, so I’m pryin’ that board up to pass the time. More as it develops.”

[Recorder rattles as it is set aside. For the next five minutes there’s nothing but fingernails and something metallic — possibly a Swiss army knife — scratching into wood, and occasionally a clunk. A gasp, and the clatter of a small object. Debra’s bare footsteps move out of range. Another minute of silence. Debra says something too far away to make out and seems to wait for a response. She repeats herself, louder.]

“Who’s there?”

[Nothing for a minute and a half. Creak of the office door closing. Pit-pat of bare feet returns. The tape rattles.]

“I’m losing my mind. I could swear I heard—”

[Silence. The scratching and clunking returns, and moments later there’s a wooden clatter like a board being tossed aside.]

“Gotcha!”

[Paper rustling.]

“Um…”

[More paper rustling. Silence.]

“Um, there’s…drawings. Wadded drawings stuffed into this little space beneath the loose board. I think they’re Jeff Daley’s pictures. When he was five he used to draw his bad dreams to…No, these can’t be real. The detail is—?”

[Crumpling: wadded paper being unraveled and then flattened out. Debra speaks quietly, almost inaudibly, as if reading something aloud to herself.]

“Don’t listen. It’s not Daddy. It’s not Daddy. It’s not…”

[Silence. A deep, trembling breath.]

“Okay, um…Okay, this isn’t funny anymore.”

[A distant sound, possibly out in the hall, and a shrill gasp. Two minutes and forty seconds of silence.]

“[incoherent mumbling] –not funny.”

[The sound again, within five feet of the recorder: a human voice speaking almost above a whisper. It says a single word difficult to make out, but sounds like Debra’s name. The recorder rattles violently as it hits the floor.]

“It’s not funny! Stop it!”

[Silence. Pit-pat of bare feet leaving the room. Three minutes pass with no sounds except a periodic thump deep within the house and Debra shouting angrily. The footsteps return. Heavy slam of the office door. Quiet sobbing within three feet of the recorder, and nothing else for another minute.]

“[speaking too quietly to register on the recorder: her throat has tightened up]”

[The sobbing stops abruptly as Debra holds her breath. The voice speaks again as quietly as before, from inside the room. Feet scrambling across the floor. The office window shrieks as it is torn open. The rest of the tape is silence.]

*

Debra posted an update the same night. There was no trace of her usual snide narrative, and she exchanged punchy one-liners for razor-edged curses. She wanted someone (me) to apologize to her for what she believed to be a perverse Halloween prank. She’d managed to keep one of the drawings she found under the loose floorboard and included a hi-res scan in her rant, condemning it as an obvious attempt by a barely capable adult artist to reproduce the work of an eight-year-old retard.

Drawn entirely in black crayon, it resembled a caricature of someone’s living room as done by Salvador Dali. At the center stood a dark shape with a grayish head misshapen like in a funhouse mirror, making it impossible to tell if it was supposed to be human or not. The thing stared right at the viewer over its shoulder with two empty black holes for eyes. Three more of the things stood beyond it, also staring at the viewer — it was as if the act of drawing the scene had grabbed their attention. Although their faces were amorphous mushes of white and gray, the three in the background seemed to be smiling. And it really did suggest a level of artistic finesse beyond that of an eight-year-old boy, but the style matched Jeff Daley’s other drawings.

Debra and I both got our share of hate mail after that blog. Half her readers thought I was an a*****e for setting her up for such a nasty trick. The other half thought Debra was pulling a hammed-up Halloween prank of her own, and when her next two updates erratically described how the sounds in the Daley house had followed her home, everyone became all the more certain of this. They still believed it was a joke when she failed to make a single update for two weeks afterward.

On November 4th in the middle of the afternoon, Debra had called her sister, Payton. She was blubbering so much Payton couldn’t understand a word she said at first.

“She let loose with the heartbroke drunk routine. Said she was sorry for missing my wedding, sorry for always being a spiteful b**** when we were growing up, sorry for kicking our dog when she was twelve — apologizing for all kinds of silly stuff like a desperate sinner at confession.

“She stopped to catch her breath, and I heard somebody else in the room with her talking quiet like they didn’t want me to hear. I asked if she wanted me to come over. She started sobbing again and said, ‘I hear Daddy, but it isn’t Daddy.’ Then she hung up and I called the police. They didn’t find anybody when they got there. I was talking to her only minutes before.”

Most folks still think Debra’s abduction by the whispering stalkers of Jeff Daley’s nightmares is a hoax orchestrated by Debra or by some other sick individual. The tape has been “proven” a fake by one ignorant skeptic after another, and it won’t be long before Sugarcaine Junction fades into obscurity once again. I hope to prevent this, not because I feel pity for Debra Lindsay Caine, though I really do pity her; but because I hope to prevent others from vanishing like she vanished, and like the city workers who found the tape vanished, and like my friend vanished. They mark their territory — like they marked the Daley house and the tape — and they can smell anything that comes in contact with it. Once they smell you, they hunt you like bloodhounds until they’ve marked you, too.

They call to you softly like they’re afraid to talk too loud — sometimes two rooms away, sometimes right next to you. They imitate people you’re closest to. Maybe they think it’s funny. But you can’t listen to them. You have to shut them out, otherwise you’ll be too scared to open your eyes or move a muscle. You won’t have the chance to kill yourself before they drag you to whatever unholy hell Debra Lindsay Caine was taken to.

I have to go take a bath with my toaster now. Mother has been calling to me for the last hour, even though she’s been dead for five years.

[theo,]

Abby loved dolls. It was her birthday soon, so her aunt got her a china doll. "Never leave this on the stairs." the shopkeeper tolf her aunt, so her aunt proceeded to tell Abby. But she was going to her gran's, and her mum left the doll on the stairs. When they arrived her gran was dead. The pair (abbie and her mum) called the police and drove home. Everything wqs okay, until Abby heard a voice.
"I am a hundred miles away from you, Abby." the voice taunted. Next week the doll moved a step down and Abby heard the voice again.
"I am ninety miles away from you, Abby." The voice continued until "Abby, I am ten miles away from you." Next week, the doll lay at the bottom of the stairs, smashed up and soaked in blood. "Abby, I am right next to you." she felt a hand on her shoulder. She was never seen again.

[Onew~]

Larry went to visit his 86 year old grandfather in a very rural area. After spending a great evening chatting the night away, Larry's grandfather prepared breakfast of bacon and eggs. Larry noticed a film like substance on his plate, and questioned his grandfather asking, 'Are these plates clean?'

His grandfather replied, 'They're as clean as cold water can get em. Just you go ahead and finish your meal'.

For lunch the old man made hamburgers. Again, Larry was concerned about the plates as it appeared to have tiny specks around the edge that looked like dried egg and asked, 'Are you sure these plates are clean?'

Without looking up the old man said, 'I told you before, those dishes are as clean as cold water can get them. Now don't you worry, I don't want to hear another word about it'.

Later that afternoon, as he was leaving, his grandfather's dog started to growl, and wouldn't let him pass. Larry yelled and said, 'Grandfather, your dog won't let me get to my car'.

Without diverting his attention from the football game he was watching on TV, the old man shouted, 'COLDWATER, GO LAY DOWN NOW, YAH HERE ME!!!


Don't think that's scary? /cleanfreakmode. HEALTH SAFETY!!! It's scary 8u

[Extraordinary_Girl]

Everyone had a nickname at St.Darque's Lycanthrope High, and mine is BloodLust. Not that I have an incasiable longing for the hunt, but I look and act like Andorias BloodLust, the most ruthless, silent and deadly Lyco ever. Not only in beastial form, but in human aswell.
I share the long, flowing black hair, the cold, peircing ice blue eyes and the height of her while human.
While as the bimorphic lycanthrope, I have the plotting, kniving mind, sharp wits, deadly, ruthless lack of remorce during a fight and my sences of scent, hearing and sight are second to none while a hunt is in motion.
Everyone gave me a wide birth after they learned of me, only Hartleath "DarkeShine" Agreshia, my mate, didn't leave me.
We met two weeks after we started St.Darques, and we soon kept a close company of each other.
Thats when I found out about my Nickname's origin.
We are both in our last year of StDarques, and our final exams are coming up.
The revision here is difficult for me, seeing as leading a hunt and sparing are group orientated, no-one wants to fight me, or hunt with me. I end up having to lead the pack, and the alpha isn't the easiest thing to be, and I end up having to fight the teacher, which usually ends up with me winning, and sitting outside the head's office.
"SweetBlasphemy! Come here!"
"Ye...yes...Blood....Lust...Wha...what do you wa...want?" She stammered, not being used to me wanting to talk to her.
"Fristly I want you to stop stuttering. And secondly I need a favour."
"But cant you get DarkeShine to do it..."
"NO! You are the closest to Mr Karsoul, aren't you?" I snapped, "I need you to get him to listen to me for once, he may be scared of me, but he wont use his fear to pardon me. He wont be swayed, no matter if I am the decendant of Andorias, but forget that I am BloodLust, at the moment I'm just Leith Ripper, a normal lycan girl." I persuaded, "So, will you do it?"
"Yes. I will."
Hmph, she was trying to be brave, poor child. But her fear was still seeping out of her, quite rapidly if I might add.
Atleast she was doing it. That was a bonus, but if she holds onto the favour, it means I have to do anything she asks me, which could be a hindrance.


Finals. What a waste of my time. But the sensation of the shift from Human to Lycanthrope is wonderful, and makes the beast form even more marvelous. As it neared my time to shift for my last time at St.Darques I was apprehencious for the first time before a shift. I wouldn't be tearing up some weak student. I would be against one of the strongest soldiers in the Lycan Army. And when I'm leading a hunt, I wont be leading a couple of whelps. I will be leading the best trackers and hunters from our time. This wont be easy for me. I will be able to use brute force and tactics in the fight. But the hunt will require prowess and alot of thinking and planning.
"BLOODLUST! TIME FOR YOUR SHIFT!"
It has begun. This is going to be good. I finaly get to beat something tougher than a teacher. As I shifted I managed to catch a glimpse of my opponent im beast form. 7' tall, dull brown fur, a bit of muscle, claws and teeth fairly blunt, but capable of packing a fair punch. I also saw he had a weak left knee joint, and was slightly slow on his feet. I held an advantage. He should be down soon after it started.
"So, You are the one I've been called in to fight against" He droned in a heavily coated Russian accent, "Let's have a look at you, eh?
Hmm, dark, black fur, muscular build, HA! Long, sharp claws and teeth. And no hindrances. No doubt you've singled mine out already, if you are who I think you are!"
"We'll see. Kalashnikov."


I was right about him packing a fair punch, but as I suspected he was easy to down in a mater of minutes. Now for the real challenge. The hunt. As I prepared myself for the most gruelling hunt of my life The Lycos I would be leading saw the oportunity to converse.
"We were dragged here, for you? Hmph, we will see if it was worth it. You may be BloodLust's decenant, but do you share her skills and prowess in the hunt? We saw you against Kalashnikov. We know what you ae capable of during a fight. Lets see if you impress us as much as seeing the Rusian fall."
Great. Sacastic little mongrells. I surely do hope they are what I've heard about them.


"DarkeShine! What a relief to see you! Today was brutal, how did you fair?"
"BloodLust, my dear! I fear the worst, but don't we all! I saw your fight with the Russian. That was amazing!"
"But the hunt. That will be my down-fall. And I fear they wont let me leave the grounds of the school if I am like her..."
"BLOODLUST! I'VE FOUND SOMETHING!"
"Yes, SweetBlasphemy? What is it?"
"Thy won't let you live! They've seen what you are, and there's something they didn't tell you when you got your Nickname."
"What? What didn't they tell me?"
"BloodLust became so over-whelemed by the wolf inside her, she became Ferral. And they will kill you because of this. I'm sorry..."
She ran off before I could ask anymore from her.
"What are you going to do now? You can't stay here, and I can't protect you."
"Then come with me DarkeShine! We can start a pack and hide."


So here I am. 20 yeas later, with the most powerful pack in England, mostly running for my life with Hartleath, but it is worth it. And I wouldn't restart for the world.

[sarcasteil]

anybody know a short story begining with, "The clock struck midnight..."?

[Sweetart]

I found a story!:

Let me start by saying that I’m a casual gamer. I enjoy a round of Halo every now and then, or a nice RPG or adventure game. I’m not picky, and I’m not competitive. So when my friend Chelsea called me up to play some games at her house, I was all for it. I left to her place at around 7, opting to catch the bus rather than walk in the spring rain. During the bus ride, I remember thinking about the time I visited them on April 1st. Chelsea and her family had gotten me with a prank involving replacing the filling of Oreos with toothpaste. It was all in good fun, and we shared a good laugh. I briefly wondered if they had anything in store for me today, on Friday the 13th.
It wasn’t until I heard the bus doors close behind me that I realized I was standing outside at the bus stop. At a brisk pace, I walked the remaining 3 blocks to Chelsea’s house. I was greeted by the barking of their two dogs, Essie and Miller. The minute Chelsea opened the door, I was rushed by Miller, the energetic fluffball. Essie just lied on the floor lazily, as she often did. We went into the main room and made ourselves comfortable. I’d always liked the feel of her house; It felt warm and inviting. But on that night it was different. It seemed a little less comforting than it usually did. I passed it off as a side-effect of the gloomy weather. Tonight, the game of choice was the latest Call of Duty release, Black Ops. As I said before, I’m not the competitive type. Chelsea on the other hand, had guns blazing as soon as the game loaded. Good ol’ Chelsea. We had fun for a couple hours; Killing other players online in a flurry of bullets and button-mashing. As the clock neared 10, Chelsea’s brother Nathan came upstairs.
“Can I play?” he asked, behind a mischievous grin. He’d always been a little trickster, just 13 years old. I’m still convinced he was the one behind the Oreo prank. We let him join, alternating turns every round or so. Near midnight, Nathan made a suggestion.
“Let’s play zombies!” Now, for those of you who aren’t aware, “Zombies” is a mode in the game in which up to four players can work together to fend off hordes of the undead. It’s not really scary, just mindless zombie killing. It sounded like fun, so we agreed. A few minutes in, an odd thought struck me. I had realized why the house felt different.
“Hey Chelsea? Where are your parents?” I had asked. Usually, they greeted me with a warm smile within five minutes of my arrival. She paused the game.
“They went out for the night. They’ll be back in the morning.” As she said this, I caught a grin cross Nathan’s face. Something in the back of my head told me that they weren’t gone, and my earlier suspicions may have been correct. I decided to stay wary, but for the time being, I would have fun. After several close calls with reanimated corpses, we made it to a part in the level with a “Random Box”. For a certain amount of points, the Random Box will give you a completely random weapon; It’s always fun to see what you’ll get. Nathan used it first. As always, he got a very useful weapon, an automatic rifle. Chelsea followed suit, but was stuck with a near-useless handgun. Then it was my turn; And of all the things I expected to get, what came out of that box was certainly not one of them.
At first, I thought my eyes were deceiving me (I had misplaced my glasses earlier that week). Instead of the regular weapon, what appeared to be some type of toy was suspended in mid-air over the box. We all sort of looked at it, trying to figure out what it was. We knew that sometimes, a toy clapper-monkey with cymbals would appear, as a joke to the player. While inconvenient, it wasn’t ever a big deal. However, this wasn’t a monkey. As we studied it, we realized it was a doll. But further inspection sent a shiver down my spine. It was burned. Badly. Its clothing was scarcely there, as well as its hair. It was missing an eye and was half-charred. Before either of us could say anything, it began to rise higher into the air. And that’s when the giggling began. Not childish giggling, or a mirthful chuckle. It was unsettling, unnerving, and it just didn’t belong. It honestly jarred me for a second, and I didn’t know how to respond. The doll rose higher into the air, until it was entirely off-screen. The only evidence it even appeared was the faint echos of a twisted child’s laughter that followed it. As the last of the giggling subsided, the screen flashed red. Then silence.
I thought for a single moment that Nathan had somehow done this. But he looked confused, and I could see even a little fear in his eyes. Chelsea was stunned as well. For a long moment, no one said anything. That is, until Chelsea noticed something odd.
“Where are all of the zombies?” She asked, and she was right. It had been too quiet, and we realized why. There weren’t any zombies. In fact, during the entire appearance of the doll, not a single zombie had made its presence known. For a full 30 seconds, we roamed the level with to no avail. Nathan opened his mouth to speak, but then we heard it again. The eerie, ghastly laughter that had accompanied the doll. This time, however, there was no doll to be found. That’s when the screen flashed red again.
Before anyone could react, hundreds of charred dolls appeared in the game. Crawling, giggling, misshapen dolls. They covered the ground, climbing onto our characters and giggling gleefully as they somehow ripped open wounds, causing blood to spill everywhere. I looked away. I knew it was just a game, but I was just too creeped out. When I looked back, the screen had its customary 'Game Over' screen. But there was something different. Our characters names appeared at the bottom of the screen, and Nathan’s was highlighted for some reason. The house was quiet; We all just sat there, collecting ourselves. I was the first to speak.
“Good one Nathan. You actually freaked me out a little.” I tried to keep the light quivering out of my voice. His quizzical look didn’t help.
“What are you talking about?” was his reply. I was determined to expose him.
“The creepy doll thing in the game. I know you did that as a joke.” He just slowly shook his head.
“Brian, I didn’t. I’ve never seen that happen before.” I don’t know why, but I felt myself get angry. I decided to just let him have his fun. It was just a stupid joke, afterall.
“If you say so.” I turned to Chelsea. “Did you want to get a snack from the kitchen?” She nodded, and we got up. Neither of us bothered to turn off the game. In the kitchen we rummaged through the cupboards to find some glasses and plates. We heard Nathan shout his need to pee from the other room, then his footsteps heading to the restroom. We browsed the kitchen for a few more minutes, returning to the living room with hot cider and cookies. We sat there for a bit, sipping our drinks and munching cookies until Chelsea spoke up.
“We should probably watch TV or something. There might be a movie on.” I agreed, and picked up the controller to turn of the Xbox. I pressed the guide button on the controller, and waited for the menu to pop up so I could turn it off. It didn’t. Sighing in both resignation and frustration, I got up to turn it off. I pressed the button, expecting the little green light to disappear, but it didn’t. Some Xbox 360 models freeze up sometimes, but I don’t recall them not being able to shut off. I tried again to no avail. I studied it for a few minutes, when Chelsea’s voice caught my attention.
“Where’s Nathan? He could probably fix it.” She sounded concerned, and a thought struck me. Where was Nathan? He’d been gone for at least fifteen minutes. I was about to call his name, when I heard a sound that made my blood run cold. The giggling. Instantly, both of our eyes shot to the screen. It was the same 'Game Over' screen, but Nathan’s name was no longer highlighted. In fact, it appeared dull compared to ours. My heart was pounding almost as fast as my mind was racing.
“What the heck was that?” I asked. But Chelsea had already stood up, and was headed toward the restroom. I followed, and knocked on the door.
“Nate? You done in there?”
No response. I tried the knob, and it was unlocked. Something told me not to open it. I don’t know what or why, but I wish to God that I had listened to it. I opened the door, and the first thing I saw was red. Blood was everywhere. Nathan was lying on the floor, a thick, dark red line from one side of his throat to the other. Another deep cut traced from his throat down to his abdomen. His short, brown hair was matted in blood, and his normally pale form was absolutely colorless. I tried to suppress the urge to vomit. A heard Chelsea move behind me, and realized I couldn’t let her see this. But I was too late. I heard a gasp, followed by the most agonizing scream. I quickly shut the door, and turned to Chelsea. She had a look of terror, revulsion, pain, and agony etched onto her face. It broke my heart to see it, but I knew we had other things to worry about first.
“Chelsea, I’m so, so sorry. But you have to listen to me. We have to get out of here, now!” Sobbing, she made a sound that sounded like agreement, though I couldn’t tell. I was nauseous, confused, terrified, and every imaginable type of sickened. We bolted to the door, but the handle wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t just stuck, it was [censored] immovable. I felt the first waves of genuine panic setting in, and I could see Chelsea close to breaking down.
‘Crap, crap, CRAP.’ I pulled out my phone, and dialed 911. Nothing but static. I didn’t know what to do. We were trapped here, with no phone, and Chelsea’s mutilated brother in a blood-soaked restroom. ‘Oh my God, Chelsea!’ My mind immediately assumed the worst, but I turned around to find Chelsea sitting on the floor, mute with shock, grief, and terror.
“Chelsea, get up! We have to GO!” I yelled. I wasn’t mad at her, but I was so overwhelmed, that I didn’t know what to do. She stood, and held onto my arm. I heard Essie and Miller barking outside, where we left them after I had arrived. I silently thanked God that they were safe. In the living room, I turned to her.
“Chelsea, we’ve got to find a way out, so we can-” I stopped short. Behind her, on the screen, was her characters name, highlighted. I must’ve showed my horror on my face, because she turned around to see what I was gaping at. A wave of terror showed on her face. She looked at me, as if I knew what to do. And suddenly, I did. We were getting out of there.
“Chelsea, hold on to me!” I screamed. I didn’t care that I was crying, or that I was shaking. I had to get us out of there before anything else happened. She did as I instructed, and I picked her up. Without another thought, I made a sprinting beeline for the window. As soon as she realized what I was doing, she gripped me tighter. Her hands were balled so tight that her knuckles had turned white. We crashed through the window and into the front yard. I was bleeding. The glass had bit into my legs, arms, chest, and face. But we were out. Chelsea was unscathed, and managed to stand up on her own.
The soft giggling from inside the house was all the motivation we needed to run.
A week later, it was all over the news. We couldn’t tell them the whole story, or they’d think we were nuts. The media had taken every possible angle and ran with it. Everything from “Neighborhood Killers” to “Child Murderers” were on every paper in the city. At Nathan’s funeral, I sat with Chelsea and her parents. It was heartbreaking;I really liked that kid. A few days after that, I was sitting in my living room. I looked at my stack of games. My eyes rested on one of them. Call of Duty: Black Ops. The memories of that night came rushing back, and I almost screamed. I realized to move on, I’d have to forget what happened and go on with my life. I popped the disk in, deciding to play the campaign mode. Assassinate Castro or something. While the disk loaded, I decided to call Chelsea and check up on her. No answer. ‘Oh well’ I thought. She probably didn’t feel like talking. As I looked back to the TV, I froze.
Instead of the Title Screen, it had the same “Game Over” screen from that night.
Nathan and Chelsea’s names were dulled.
Mine was highlighted.....
And then I heard a giggle......