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Those stories are really creepy!..... Keep em coming!!!! 
The Official Creepy Story Thread!
- Thread starter EDITThor
- Start date
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2007
- Messages
- 1,067
Here's another Neil Gaiman I like. It's more traditional for a short story [Hence the length, and the fact the 'creepy' part is more towards the ending. Haha. Irony.] but still eerie. I also like the fact, even though some of the stories in these threads can work with liberal amounts of gore [like the Medic one] it works much more subtly. It may also not fit in with the others, as it's not terribly scary, but the ending is eerie, and if you have the patience of the average reader you will probably enjoy it as it is well written.
Oh, unrelated to the story, but I found these just now: http://abandonedclowntrain.ytmnd.com/
http://www.eatliver.com/i.php?n=2056
I knew I had seen that picture before.. 'The abandoned clown train remembers you'
[blockquote]Queen of Knives By Neil Gaiman, 1986
"The reappearance of the lady is a matter of individual taste."- WILL GOLDSTON, TRICKS AND ILLUSIONS
When I was a boy, from time to time,
I stayed with my grandparents.
(old people: I knew they were old-- chocolates in their house remained uneaten until I came to stay, this, then, was aging).
My grandfather always made breakfast at sunup;
a pot of tea, for her and him and me,
some toast and marmalade
(the Silver Shred and the Gold). Lunch and dinner,
those were my grandmother's to make, the kitchen
was again her domain, all the pans and spoons,
the mincer, all the whisks and knives, her loyal subjects.
She would prepare food with them, singing her little songs:
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do,
or sometimes,
You made me love you, I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it.
She had no voice, not one to speak of.
Business was very slow.
My grandfather spent his days at the top of the house, in his tiny darkroom where I was not permitted to go, bringing out paper faces from the darkness, the cheerless smiles of other people's holidays.
My grandmother would take me for gray walks along the promenade.
Mostly I would explore the small wet grassy space behind the house, the blackberry brambles, and the garden shed.
It was a hard week for my grandparents to entertain a wide-eyed boy-child, so one night they took me to the King's Theatre, The King's...
Variety!
The lights went down, red curtains rose.
A popular comedian of the day came on, stammered out his name (his catchphrase), pulled out a sheet of glass, and stood half-behind it, raising the arm and leg that we could see; reflected. He seemed to fly-- it was his trademark, so we all laughed and cheered. He told a joke or two, quite badly. His haplessness, his awkwardness, those were what we had come to see. Bemused, balding, and bespectacled, he reminded me a little of my grandfather.
And then the comedian was done.
Some ladies danced all legs across the stage.
A singer sang a song I didn't know.
The audience were all old people,
like my grandparents, tired and retired,
all of them laughing and applauding.
In the interval my grandfather queued for a choc ice and a couple of tubs. We ate our ices as the lights went down.
The SAFETY CURTAIN rose, and then the real curtain.
The ladies danced across the stage again, and then the thunder rolled, the smoke went puff, a conjurer appeared and bowed. We clapped.
The lady walked on, smiling from the wings: glittered. Shimmered. Smiled.
We looked at her, and in that moment flowers grew, and silks and pennants tumbled from his fingertips.
The flags of all nations, said my grandfather, nudging me.
They were up his sleeve..
Since he was a young man (I could not imagine him as a child),
my grandfather had been, by his own admission, one of the people who knew how things worked. He had built his own television, my grandfather told me, when they were first married; it was enormous, though the screen was small.
This was the day before television programs; they watched it, though, unsure whether it was people or ghosts they were seeing.
He had a patent, too, for something he invented, but it was never manufactured.
Stood for the local council, but he cam in third.
He could repair a shaver or a wireless, develop your film or build a house for dolls. (The doll's house was my mother's. We still had it at my house; shabby and old, it sat out on the grass, all rained up and forgot.)
The glitter lady wheeled up a box.
The box was tall: grown-up-person-sized and black.
She opened up the front.
They turned it round, and banged upon the back.
The lady stepped in, still smiling.
The magician closed the door on her.
When it was opened, she had gone.
He bowed.
Mirrors explained my grandfather. She's really still inside.. At a gesture, the box collapsed to matchwood. A trapdoor, assured my grandfather;
Grandma hissed him silent.
The magician smiled, his teeth were small and crowded; he walked, slowly, out into the audience.
He pointed to my grandmother, he bowed a middle European bow, and invited her to join him on the stage.
The other people clapped and cheered.
My grandmother demurred. I was so close to the magician that I could smell his aftershave, and whispered "Me, oh, me..." But still, he reached his long fingers for my grandmother.
Pearl, go on up, said my grandfather. Go with the man.
My grandmother must have been, what? Sixty, then?
She had just stopped smoking, was trying to lose some weight. She was proudest of her teeth, which, though tobacco- stained, were all her own.
My grandfather had lost his, as a youth, riding his bicycle; he had the bright idea to hold on to a bus to pick up speed. The bus had turned, and Grandpa kissed the road. She chewed hard licorice, watching TV at night, or sucked hard caramels, perhaps to make him wrong.
She stood up, then, a little slowly.
Put down the paper tub half-full of ice cream, the little wooden spoon--- went down the aisle, and up the steps. And on the stage.
The conjurer applauded her once more--
A good sport. That was what she was. A sport. Another glittering woman came from the wings, bringing another box-- this one was red.
That's her, nodded my grandfather, the one who vanished off before. You see? That's her.
Perhaps it was. All I could see was a woman who sparkled, standing next to my grandmother (who fiddle with her pearls and looked embarrassed). The lady smiled and faced us, then she froze, a statue or a window mannequin. The magician pulled the box, with ease, down to the front of stage where my grandmother waited. A moment or so of chitchat: where she was from, her name, that kind of thing. They'd never met before? She shook her head.
The magician opened the door.
My grandmother stepped into it.
Perhaps it's not the same one, admitted my grandfather, on reflection. I think she had darker hair, the other girl.
I didn't know.
I was proud of my grandmother, but also embarrassed, hoping she'd do nothing to make me squirm, that she wouldn't sing one of her songs.
She walked into the box. They shut the door. He opened a compartment at the top, a little door. We saw my grandmother's face. Pearl? Are you all right, Pearl?
My grandmother smiled and nodded.
The magician closed the door.
The lady gave him a long thin case, so he opened it. Took out a sword, and rammed it through the box.
And then another, and another, and my grandfather chuckled and explained, The blade slides in the hilt, and then a fake slides out the other side.
Then he produced a sheet of metal, which he slid into the box half the way up. It cut the thing in half. The tow of them, the woman and the man, lifted the top half of the box up and off, and put it on the stage, with half my grandma in.
The top half.
He opened up the little door again, for a moment,my grandmother's face beamed at us, trustingly. When he closed the door before, she went down a trapdoor, and now she's standing halfway up, my grandfather confided. She'll tell us how it's done when it's all over. I wanted him to stop talking; I needed the magic.
Two knives now, through the half-a-box, at neck height. Are you there, Pearl? asked the magician. Let us know,--- do you know any songs?
My grandmother sang Daisy, Daisy.
He picked up the part of the box, with the little door in it-- the heard part-- and walked about, and she sang, first at one side of the stage, then at the other.
That's him, said my grandfather, and he's throwing his voice.
It sounds like Grandma, I said.
Of course it does, he said. Of course it does, he's good, he said. He's very, very good.
The conjuror opened up the box again, now hatbox-sized. My grandmother had finished Daisy, Daisy, and was on a song which went: My my, here we go, the driver's drunk and the horse won't go, now we're going back, now we're going back, back back back to London Town.
She had been born in London. Told me ominous tales from time to time to time of her childhood. Of the children who ran into her father's shop shouting Shonky shonky sheeny, running away; she would not let me wear a black shirt because, she said, she remembered the marches through the East End. Moseley's blackshirts. Her sister got an eye blackened.
The conjurer took a kitchen knife, pushed it slowly through the red hatbox. And then the singing stopped.
He put the boxes back together, pulled out the knives and swords, one by one by one. He opened the compartment in the top; my grandmother smiled, embarrassed at us, displaying her own old teeth. He closed the compartment, hiding her from view. Pulled out the last knife.
Opened the main door again, and she was gone.
A gesture, and the red box vanished, too.
It's up his sleeve, my grandfather explained, but seemed unsure.
The conjurer made two doves fly from a burning plate.
A puff of smoke, and he was gone as well.
She'll be under the stage now, or backstage,
said my grandfather,
having a cup of tea. She'll come back to us with flowers, or with chocolates. I hoped for chocolates.
The dancing girls again.
The comedian, for the last time.
And all of them came on together at the end.
The grand finale, said my grandfather. Look sharp, perhaps she'll be back on now.
But no.
They sang;
When you're riding along on the crest of the wave and the sun is in the sky.
The curtain went down, and we shuffled out into the lobby. We loitered for a while. Then we went down to the strange door and waited for my grandmother to come out. The conjurer came out in street clothes; the glitter woman looked so different in a mac.
My grandfather went to speak to him. He shrugged, told us he spoke no English and produced a half-a-crown from behind my ear, and vanished off into the dark and rain.
I never saw my grandmother again.
We went back to their house, and carried on.
My grandfather now had to cook for us, and so for breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea, we had golden toast and silver marmalade and cups of tea.
'Till I went home.
He got so old after that night, as if the years took him all in a rush.
Daisy, Daisy, he'd sing, give me your answer, do. If you were the only girl in the world and i were the only boy. My old man said follow the van.
My grandfather had the voice in the family, they said he could have been a cantor, but there were snapshots to develop, radios and razors to repair...
his brothers were a singing duo: the Nightingales, had been on television in the early days.
He bore it well. Although, late one night, I woke, remembering the licorice sticks in the pantry, I walked downstairs. My grandfather stood there in his bare feet.
And in the kitchen, all alone, I saw him stab a knife into a box.
You made me love you. I didn't want to do it.[/blockquote]
Oh, unrelated to the story, but I found these just now: http://abandonedclowntrain.ytmnd.com/
http://www.eatliver.com/i.php?n=2056
I knew I had seen that picture before.. 'The abandoned clown train remembers you'
[blockquote]Queen of Knives By Neil Gaiman, 1986
"The reappearance of the lady is a matter of individual taste."- WILL GOLDSTON, TRICKS AND ILLUSIONS
When I was a boy, from time to time,
I stayed with my grandparents.
(old people: I knew they were old-- chocolates in their house remained uneaten until I came to stay, this, then, was aging).
My grandfather always made breakfast at sunup;
a pot of tea, for her and him and me,
some toast and marmalade
(the Silver Shred and the Gold). Lunch and dinner,
those were my grandmother's to make, the kitchen
was again her domain, all the pans and spoons,
the mincer, all the whisks and knives, her loyal subjects.
She would prepare food with them, singing her little songs:
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do,
or sometimes,
You made me love you, I didn't want to do it, I didn't want to do it.
She had no voice, not one to speak of.
Business was very slow.
My grandfather spent his days at the top of the house, in his tiny darkroom where I was not permitted to go, bringing out paper faces from the darkness, the cheerless smiles of other people's holidays.
My grandmother would take me for gray walks along the promenade.
Mostly I would explore the small wet grassy space behind the house, the blackberry brambles, and the garden shed.
It was a hard week for my grandparents to entertain a wide-eyed boy-child, so one night they took me to the King's Theatre, The King's...
Variety!
The lights went down, red curtains rose.
A popular comedian of the day came on, stammered out his name (his catchphrase), pulled out a sheet of glass, and stood half-behind it, raising the arm and leg that we could see; reflected. He seemed to fly-- it was his trademark, so we all laughed and cheered. He told a joke or two, quite badly. His haplessness, his awkwardness, those were what we had come to see. Bemused, balding, and bespectacled, he reminded me a little of my grandfather.
And then the comedian was done.
Some ladies danced all legs across the stage.
A singer sang a song I didn't know.
The audience were all old people,
like my grandparents, tired and retired,
all of them laughing and applauding.
In the interval my grandfather queued for a choc ice and a couple of tubs. We ate our ices as the lights went down.
The SAFETY CURTAIN rose, and then the real curtain.
The ladies danced across the stage again, and then the thunder rolled, the smoke went puff, a conjurer appeared and bowed. We clapped.
The lady walked on, smiling from the wings: glittered. Shimmered. Smiled.
We looked at her, and in that moment flowers grew, and silks and pennants tumbled from his fingertips.
The flags of all nations, said my grandfather, nudging me.
They were up his sleeve..
Since he was a young man (I could not imagine him as a child),
my grandfather had been, by his own admission, one of the people who knew how things worked. He had built his own television, my grandfather told me, when they were first married; it was enormous, though the screen was small.
This was the day before television programs; they watched it, though, unsure whether it was people or ghosts they were seeing.
He had a patent, too, for something he invented, but it was never manufactured.
Stood for the local council, but he cam in third.
He could repair a shaver or a wireless, develop your film or build a house for dolls. (The doll's house was my mother's. We still had it at my house; shabby and old, it sat out on the grass, all rained up and forgot.)
The glitter lady wheeled up a box.
The box was tall: grown-up-person-sized and black.
She opened up the front.
They turned it round, and banged upon the back.
The lady stepped in, still smiling.
The magician closed the door on her.
When it was opened, she had gone.
He bowed.
Mirrors explained my grandfather. She's really still inside.. At a gesture, the box collapsed to matchwood. A trapdoor, assured my grandfather;
Grandma hissed him silent.
The magician smiled, his teeth were small and crowded; he walked, slowly, out into the audience.
He pointed to my grandmother, he bowed a middle European bow, and invited her to join him on the stage.
The other people clapped and cheered.
My grandmother demurred. I was so close to the magician that I could smell his aftershave, and whispered "Me, oh, me..." But still, he reached his long fingers for my grandmother.
Pearl, go on up, said my grandfather. Go with the man.
My grandmother must have been, what? Sixty, then?
She had just stopped smoking, was trying to lose some weight. She was proudest of her teeth, which, though tobacco- stained, were all her own.
My grandfather had lost his, as a youth, riding his bicycle; he had the bright idea to hold on to a bus to pick up speed. The bus had turned, and Grandpa kissed the road. She chewed hard licorice, watching TV at night, or sucked hard caramels, perhaps to make him wrong.
She stood up, then, a little slowly.
Put down the paper tub half-full of ice cream, the little wooden spoon--- went down the aisle, and up the steps. And on the stage.
The conjurer applauded her once more--
A good sport. That was what she was. A sport. Another glittering woman came from the wings, bringing another box-- this one was red.
That's her, nodded my grandfather, the one who vanished off before. You see? That's her.
Perhaps it was. All I could see was a woman who sparkled, standing next to my grandmother (who fiddle with her pearls and looked embarrassed). The lady smiled and faced us, then she froze, a statue or a window mannequin. The magician pulled the box, with ease, down to the front of stage where my grandmother waited. A moment or so of chitchat: where she was from, her name, that kind of thing. They'd never met before? She shook her head.
The magician opened the door.
My grandmother stepped into it.
Perhaps it's not the same one, admitted my grandfather, on reflection. I think she had darker hair, the other girl.
I didn't know.
I was proud of my grandmother, but also embarrassed, hoping she'd do nothing to make me squirm, that she wouldn't sing one of her songs.
She walked into the box. They shut the door. He opened a compartment at the top, a little door. We saw my grandmother's face. Pearl? Are you all right, Pearl?
My grandmother smiled and nodded.
The magician closed the door.
The lady gave him a long thin case, so he opened it. Took out a sword, and rammed it through the box.
And then another, and another, and my grandfather chuckled and explained, The blade slides in the hilt, and then a fake slides out the other side.
Then he produced a sheet of metal, which he slid into the box half the way up. It cut the thing in half. The tow of them, the woman and the man, lifted the top half of the box up and off, and put it on the stage, with half my grandma in.
The top half.
He opened up the little door again, for a moment,my grandmother's face beamed at us, trustingly. When he closed the door before, she went down a trapdoor, and now she's standing halfway up, my grandfather confided. She'll tell us how it's done when it's all over. I wanted him to stop talking; I needed the magic.
Two knives now, through the half-a-box, at neck height. Are you there, Pearl? asked the magician. Let us know,--- do you know any songs?
My grandmother sang Daisy, Daisy.
He picked up the part of the box, with the little door in it-- the heard part-- and walked about, and she sang, first at one side of the stage, then at the other.
That's him, said my grandfather, and he's throwing his voice.
It sounds like Grandma, I said.
Of course it does, he said. Of course it does, he's good, he said. He's very, very good.
The conjuror opened up the box again, now hatbox-sized. My grandmother had finished Daisy, Daisy, and was on a song which went: My my, here we go, the driver's drunk and the horse won't go, now we're going back, now we're going back, back back back to London Town.
She had been born in London. Told me ominous tales from time to time to time of her childhood. Of the children who ran into her father's shop shouting Shonky shonky sheeny, running away; she would not let me wear a black shirt because, she said, she remembered the marches through the East End. Moseley's blackshirts. Her sister got an eye blackened.
The conjurer took a kitchen knife, pushed it slowly through the red hatbox. And then the singing stopped.
He put the boxes back together, pulled out the knives and swords, one by one by one. He opened the compartment in the top; my grandmother smiled, embarrassed at us, displaying her own old teeth. He closed the compartment, hiding her from view. Pulled out the last knife.
Opened the main door again, and she was gone.
A gesture, and the red box vanished, too.
It's up his sleeve, my grandfather explained, but seemed unsure.
The conjurer made two doves fly from a burning plate.
A puff of smoke, and he was gone as well.
She'll be under the stage now, or backstage,
said my grandfather,
having a cup of tea. She'll come back to us with flowers, or with chocolates. I hoped for chocolates.
The dancing girls again.
The comedian, for the last time.
And all of them came on together at the end.
The grand finale, said my grandfather. Look sharp, perhaps she'll be back on now.
But no.
They sang;
When you're riding along on the crest of the wave and the sun is in the sky.
The curtain went down, and we shuffled out into the lobby. We loitered for a while. Then we went down to the strange door and waited for my grandmother to come out. The conjurer came out in street clothes; the glitter woman looked so different in a mac.
My grandfather went to speak to him. He shrugged, told us he spoke no English and produced a half-a-crown from behind my ear, and vanished off into the dark and rain.
I never saw my grandmother again.
We went back to their house, and carried on.
My grandfather now had to cook for us, and so for breakfast, dinner, lunch, and tea, we had golden toast and silver marmalade and cups of tea.
'Till I went home.
He got so old after that night, as if the years took him all in a rush.
Daisy, Daisy, he'd sing, give me your answer, do. If you were the only girl in the world and i were the only boy. My old man said follow the van.
My grandfather had the voice in the family, they said he could have been a cantor, but there were snapshots to develop, radios and razors to repair...
his brothers were a singing duo: the Nightingales, had been on television in the early days.
He bore it well. Although, late one night, I woke, remembering the licorice sticks in the pantry, I walked downstairs. My grandfather stood there in his bare feet.
And in the kitchen, all alone, I saw him stab a knife into a box.
You made me love you. I didn't want to do it.[/blockquote]
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2007
- Messages
- 1,067
I saw the new story I think it's probably my favourite since the medic. Maybe it's the fact that he tortures your mind for that week (I love psychology, insanity, anything that plays with the mind) that gets me.
Glad you liked those stories, Thor. [Plugfavouriteauthor]You should definitely check Neil Gaiman's work. Most of his work is 'fantasy' though it is modern 'dark' fantasy. American Gods is one of his greatest works, and it is an example of his modern 'dark' fantasy, as it is a story about how the old gods [especially from the Norse pantheon, they cover many many gods, but Odin and Loki are very important to the story] are struggling to survive [as they die if people stop believing in them] in America, during an era of new gods. Gods of technology, and media. 'American Gods.' And how a war, known as 'the storm' is coming, a fight for survival over the souls and belief. And it has a great plot twist too, but you'd have to read it
Both those stories are from his short story collection, 'Smoke and Mirrors,' which I also highly recommend. His imagination is endless. It's interesting, as he actually started off as a comic book writer [not to say his comics weren't sophisticated. He was behind 'The Sandman' series] that his writing is so great. Smoke and Mirrors has some shoddy moments [Such as 'Looking for that girl' which was entirely about a kid looking for a girl he saw nude in a penthouse magazine :-\ meh] but most of the stories are excellent, and they run the gamut from funny, weird, and spooky like the ones I posted. I want to post another, 'Troll Bridge' (Which is a brilliant horror/adult retelling of Billy Goats Gruff, of course) but unfortunately I think some of it's sexuality might be too graphic for some, but those who are interested.. Buy his books [/Endpluggingfavouriteauthor]
I think it's probably my favourite since the medic. Maybe it's the fact that he tortures your mind for that week (I love psychology, insanity, anything that plays with the mind) that gets me. Glad you liked those stories, Thor. [Plugfavouriteauthor]You should definitely check Neil Gaiman's work. Most of his work is 'fantasy' though it is modern 'dark' fantasy. American Gods is one of his greatest works, and it is an example of his modern 'dark' fantasy, as it is a story about how the old gods [especially from the Norse pantheon, they cover many many gods, but Odin and Loki are very important to the story] are struggling to survive [as they die if people stop believing in them] in America, during an era of new gods. Gods of technology, and media. 'American Gods.' And how a war, known as 'the storm' is coming, a fight for survival over the souls and belief. And it has a great plot twist too, but you'd have to read it
Both those stories are from his short story collection, 'Smoke and Mirrors,' which I also highly recommend. His imagination is endless. It's interesting, as he actually started off as a comic book writer [not to say his comics weren't sophisticated. He was behind 'The Sandman' series] that his writing is so great. Smoke and Mirrors has some shoddy moments [Such as 'Looking for that girl' which was entirely about a kid looking for a girl he saw nude in a penthouse magazine :-\ meh] but most of the stories are excellent, and they run the gamut from funny, weird, and spooky like the ones I posted. I want to post another, 'Troll Bridge' (Which is a brilliant horror/adult retelling of Billy Goats Gruff, of course) but unfortunately I think some of it's sexuality might be too graphic for some, but those who are interested.. Buy his books [/Endpluggingfavouriteauthor]- Joined
- Oct 27, 2007
- Messages
- 1,573
the medic is still the best
- Joined
- Aug 21, 2007
- Messages
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Wow, that Angel story really goosebumped me. And Thor, nice work on this thread, you always have cool threads me boy ^^
- Joined
- Dec 2, 2006
- Messages
- 970
what the hell croutons!? somebody is obviously crazy
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2007
- Messages
- 1,067
[quote1199674497=ROCKET CHUMP]
what the hell croutons!? somebody is obviously crazy
[/quote1199674497]
Neil Gaiman ain't crazy. !mistrust That's just some of his darkest work [at least, Baby cakes is. He even said it bothers himself]
what the hell croutons!? somebody is obviously crazy
[/quote1199674497]
Neil Gaiman ain't crazy. !mistrust That's just some of his darkest work [at least, Baby cakes is. He even said it bothers himself]
- Joined
- Apr 17, 2007
- Messages
- 3,644
i am scared now dang it.
- Joined
- Jul 19, 2006
- Messages
- 7,122
Corner one owns! I'm telling these to my twin in finnish and it sounds a lot more creepy 
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2007
- Messages
- 1,067
This will probably only be of interest to those who believe in "ghosts" (Don't want a skeptic to make an argument, making a believer make an argument, changing this threads topic entirely..) but here are 2 EVPs I love: http://media.ghostpix.com/webalmaberg.wav (I just love the way it sounds, far off into the distance. Whether it's real or not, I do not know, but it's still eerie.)
http://media.ghostpix.com/webdeathgate.wav (I love it from the fact that even though I believe in "ghosts" I am still skeptical about everything I see and hear. I love this one, because I can make out the words, but at the same time it sounds like a creepy noise more than entirely a voice. It gives you a good edge to walk on.)
http://media.ghostpix.com/webdeathgate.wav (I love it from the fact that even though I believe in "ghosts" I am still skeptical about everything I see and hear. I love this one, because I can make out the words, but at the same time it sounds like a creepy noise more than entirely a voice. It gives you a good edge to walk on.)
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2007
- Messages
- 1,067
Why no new story today, Thor? 
I'll hunt through my short story books and see if I can find one to keep this thread up to date. It must not die!
I'll hunt through my short story books and see if I can find one to keep this thread up to date. It must not die!
[quote1199856168=CroutonsofDeath{RD}]
Why no new story today, Thor?
I'll hunt through my short story books and see if I can find one to keep this thread up to date. It must not die!
[/quote1199856168]
Oooh I was busy today =_=.
I'll get one for yesterday and today ASAP!
Why no new story today, Thor?
I'll hunt through my short story books and see if I can find one to keep this thread up to date. It must not die!
[/quote1199856168]
Oooh I was busy today =_=.
I'll get one for yesterday and today ASAP!
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- Oct 27, 2007
- Messages
- 1,573
keep em coming thor also dam send me a link for these lol
- Joined
- Jul 19, 2006
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- 7,122
Sweet one, the lighthouse 
Also Holder of The End was a good read.
Also Holder of The End was a good read.- Joined
- Oct 27, 2007
- Messages
- 1,573
this one bugging me
/09
The Holder of the End
In any city, in any country, go to any mental instituion or halfway house in you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of the End". Should a look of child-like fear come over the workers face, you will then be taken to a cell in the building. It will be in a deep hidden section of the building. All you will hear is the sound of someone talking to themselves echo the halls. It is in a language that you will not understand, but your very soul will feel unspeakable fear.
Should the talking stop at any time, STOP and QUICKLY say aloud "I'm just passing through, I wish to talk." If you still hear silence, flee. Leave, do not stop for anything, do not go home, don't stay at an inn, just keep moving, sleep where your body drops. You will know in the morning if you've escaped.
If the voice in the hall comes back after you utter those words continue on. Upon reaching the cell all you will see is a windowless room with a person in the corner, speaking an unknown language, and cradling something. The person will only respond to one question. What happens when they all come together?
The person will then stare into your eyes and answer your question in horrifiying detail. Many go mad in that very cell, some disappear soon after the meeting, a few end their lives. But most do the worst thing and look upon the object in the person's hands. You will want to as well. Be warned, if you do your death will be that of cruelity and unrelenting horror.
Your death will be in that room, by that person's hands.
This object is 1 of 538. They must never come together. Never.
i want to know the myth/story of the 538 things that must never come together its making me mad lol
/09
The Holder of the End
In any city, in any country, go to any mental instituion or halfway house in you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of the End". Should a look of child-like fear come over the workers face, you will then be taken to a cell in the building. It will be in a deep hidden section of the building. All you will hear is the sound of someone talking to themselves echo the halls. It is in a language that you will not understand, but your very soul will feel unspeakable fear.
Should the talking stop at any time, STOP and QUICKLY say aloud "I'm just passing through, I wish to talk." If you still hear silence, flee. Leave, do not stop for anything, do not go home, don't stay at an inn, just keep moving, sleep where your body drops. You will know in the morning if you've escaped.
If the voice in the hall comes back after you utter those words continue on. Upon reaching the cell all you will see is a windowless room with a person in the corner, speaking an unknown language, and cradling something. The person will only respond to one question. What happens when they all come together?
The person will then stare into your eyes and answer your question in horrifiying detail. Many go mad in that very cell, some disappear soon after the meeting, a few end their lives. But most do the worst thing and look upon the object in the person's hands. You will want to as well. Be warned, if you do your death will be that of cruelity and unrelenting horror.
Your death will be in that room, by that person's hands.
This object is 1 of 538. They must never come together. Never.
i want to know the myth/story of the 538 things that must never come together its making me mad lol
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2007
- Messages
- 1,067
This is gonna be an odd post, but I am actually going to do a story from a comic. One of the few Japanese comics I care for (It has a beginning, middle and end, yet tells many unique, creepy, and bizarre stories inbetween, without dragging on forever. I also like the artwork, not the stereotypical 'big eyes, freaky hair' they look like humans, and the artists use of optical illusions in many chapters is excellent.)... There is a scarier one in the second volume, but I'm too lazy to censor it, but this one is still plenty creepy, imo.
The comic is 'うずまき' [Uzumaki- Vortex in Europe] by Junji Ito. It is flopped, so don't worry about reading it the Japanese way, heh. All you need to know about the story thus far, is that Kirie Goshima is a young Japanese school girl who has no idea that her town is cursed. Her boyfriend, however, after losing his mother and father to the curse of the uzumaki [spiral], has become insanely paranoid of the shape.
The comic is 'うずまき' [Uzumaki- Vortex in Europe] by Junji Ito. It is flopped, so don't worry about reading it the Japanese way, heh. All you need to know about the story thus far, is that Kirie Goshima is a young Japanese school girl who has no idea that her town is cursed. Her boyfriend, however, after losing his mother and father to the curse of the uzumaki [spiral], has become insanely paranoid of the shape.
