Creepypasta: I Can Feel Them

    I am a Chronic Insomniac. I've been one since I was 5 years old. One night, I woke up extremely early, and from then on, if I didn't pass out entirely from exhaustion, then I'm awake for a minimum of four days at a time. My worst span of insomnia was when I was 14 to 15 years old, where I would get (at most) one hour of sleep per 5 days. I'm not going to go into details about my life, just that I've had mishaps that have crippled me, a family that's survived things like organ transplants, drug addictions, family betrayals, and the like. But it all came to a head when my brother went missing (part of the drug addiction element). My family was incredibly stressed, but I went through my own issues privately, in order to give them room.

    The first couple of days weren't so bad. I was used to going without sleep at this point, so I kept myself busy. I read my Classical Latin textbooks, I fucked around on the computer, I watched the same Chop Socky and cheesy horror flicks I grew up with, and waited for daybreak to go to school, interact with people my own age, and then go home to do the same things all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat. That is, until I remained awake for the fifth day. The fifth dawn caught me off guard. I was used to ignoring my sleep cycle, but I figured that I would finally crash and succumb to the silent succor of slumber. But nope, there I was, awake on the fifth dawn, and wearily reticent for it.

    I went to school, and did the daily tasks, but by noon, I was starting to feel rather uncomfortable. I could feel a tingly sensation, like there were thousands of insects crawling on me. I spent the next 3 days in that state of discomfort. I would rub my shoulders and legs, I would scratch my back, anything and everything was done to remove the sensation. In fact, by the time the ninth day dawned, I was almost in agony. I was starting to scratch myself raw in some areas, and I was starting to show a twitchy, anxious persona that people knew wasn't what I was. The closest I could compare it to is someone you can tell is obviously abusing Methamphetamines, with the bouncy gait, sunken eyes, and slight shaking. I was starting to become a wreck, and it was obvious to anyone who could see me.

    The ninth day was a Friday, so I just put my head down, and powered through all the itchiness and feelings of discomfort I was going through. If you want to know torture, be buried up to your neck in sand, and then realize that you have an intense desire to scratch your nose. Now, apply that to your entire person. The entire day, I was pulled aside by my teachers, who were making sure that I was okay. I told them that there was some issues at home, and that I wasn't getting sleep because of it, but I was used to that, and told them not to worry. Let me tell you now: anyone tells you not to worry, is the exact point that you should START. Cause while I was talking with my World Religion teacher, I saw that there was something on his shirt. Not a stain, mind you. But there was something MOVING, like it was inadvertently sewn in, and was trying to escape.

    It wriggled and jostled, moving the entire time he was talking to me. I stared as it moved inside his sweater, bulging and sliding along the weave pattern across his chest and up to the collar. The sound of the chime for my next class shocked me out of my state, and I apologized to him if I had zoned out, and quickly made my way to class. I didn't see anything else that day, but I knew I wasn't entirely right in the head. I needed sleep, and I needed it BADLY. Come Hell or high water, I would force myself to sleep that night. I made it through my day, made it home, and immediately set myself on exhaustion. I went walking. I piled firewood. I skipped dinner. I exercised like mad. I played my PS1 for hours. I did my homework. And when I felt the first twinge of tiredness, I immediately jumped into bed. And then, I WAITED.

    I was in bed for several hours. I just couldn't fall asleep for the death of me. So I started to do what I was taught in the 4th Grade: I closed my eyes, and I began to meditate. I spent a solid hour just shutting myself off from the world, and I could tell it was working. My mind was falling out of overdrive, and finally letting myself relax. I started to feel good, that I had accomplished something I may never have before. A full night of sleep, under my own terms and nothing to stop me from actual rest. Feeling great would be the simplest way I could claim it.

    The sensation of something on my arm made me react. I moved to deal with whatever was there, but as I reached for it, the feeling of something creeping up my leg began to show itself. I was willing to write it down as nerves, until the mattress beneath me began to roil and squirm. I could feel myself lifting and falling with each movement, as the crawling sensation began to spread across me. I grabbed the blankets on top of me, noticing their squishier pliant nature, and flung them off. And I noticed that I had nothing on me. But the sensation underneath me would not cease. I jumped out of bed, to see what would be big enough to force me, a 215 lbs. teen at the time, to fling themselves out of bed, and ran to the light. And as it flickered on, I could see the bed quickly settle down, the lump underneath where I laid rapidly fading until it seemed there was nothing there. And that was only further compounded by the fact that I tore the bed apart, looking for any clues of what may have been large enough to move my entire person off the bed.

    So I remade my bed, and spent the next 4 days avoiding my bed entirely.

    But it wasn't just my bed that writhed with a life only I could see. Over those next 4 days, I saw clothes beginning to move and squirm, walls began to bulge and recede, floors lifting and the bulges they made sliding along and then recede, and even pieces of wood that I would gather for the fireplace breathed with the sensation of life in my hands. I couldn't read, I couldn't play games, I couldn't even sit anywhere or wear clothes without the sensation of movement and the tingle of invasion of my person. It was getting stronger and stronger, and I couldn't stand to ignore it for much longer. I was shaking badly, my appetite was essentially gone entirely, and I was pale to the point of illness. I couldn't think, couldn't eat, and definitely couldn't sleep. I was already going through a severe depression at this point, and this lack of sleep exasperated things to the breaking point. I was starting to believe that the only relief I would get would be if I died, but I wasn't going to give in that easily.

    On the fourteenth day, I pulled myself up from the wriggling floor, dressed in the clothes that showed the least activity, and powered through my day. I didn't speak, I didn't eat, and I didn't do anything other than do what I needed to do, and get home. I had one goal in mind: find out whatever was there, and get rid of it. I waited until nightfall, when I would try to once and for all find what was bothering me and get the sleep that I desperately needed. When my parents went to bed, I took a knife from my kitchen and cut open a corner of my top blanket. The wave of bugs, all types and sizes, poured out of the hole I made, crawling all over me. The sensations on my person from before exploded with activity, madly thrashing and wildly wriggling to escape the confines of my clothes. From head to toe, I felt the entirety of my person awash in the sensation of insects exploring my entire person. I dropped the blanket, and moved to rid myself of these things.

    The floor moved. The bed was moving. The walls were moving. Everything around me, and on me, was alive with movement, and the sounds of these invaders was deafening. I stumbled in my panicked state, feverishly moving to rid the insects on me, when a sudden movement on my bed caught my attention. I stared at the hole I had made, and was aghast at what was coming out of it. Long, flat tapeworms began to squirm out, rushing to move themselves off of the bed, and pouring themselves towards me. The movement in the walls seemed to push me towards them, as I futilely attempted to escape. They quickly wrapped around my leg, sliding themselves around and up it, slipping underneath my shirt. I could feel them, teasing my torso, looking for entry into me. I began to cry, for I openly feared this incredible violation that I was about to experience. They slid up my neck, and seemed to stare at me. As they slowly began to move inside, I did the only thing I could: I passed out in fear.

    I was awoken by my parents, found on the floor, covered in sweat and tears, babbling in my unconscious state. My parents were startled by the sounds that emanated from my room, and checked in on me when the sounds stopped. My dad helped me up, and told me that it was probably time to sleep. I twisted my head, staring at my bed frame, scared of what awaited me if I did. But there was nothing. No insects. No worms. No signs of entry, outside of the hole I made in one corner of a blanket. The walls and floors stayed still, and my clothes refused to move. My dad told my mom that I was seriously distressed, and that I might need a bit of time to recover. So I was forced to take over a week from school. Five of those days I spent asleep, the longest period of exhaustion I had ever experienced essentially forcing me into a mini-coma. When I came back to school, everyone wanted to know where I had been, but I refused to answer.

    I had essentially gone made from insomnia, and I still feel it to this day. In fact, I'm currently on day 6. I'm itchy again, but this time I can tell it's different. The sensation isn't ON my person, anymore. IT'S IN IT.

Creepypasta: That Buzzing

    As soon as you began this, you could hear that buzzing sound at the back of your skull. I’m sorry, but it’s now too late for you to do anything than continue.

    The buzzing sound is high pitched, and frequently pulsing. You can feel it in every part of your head. Your heartbeat leaps with every pulse, spurring your body’s responses. You begin to manually breathe in and out, to try and control your pulse. But you know that buzzing sound won’t let that happen. It’s penetrative noise worms it’s way through your defenses, and sinks deeper into your conscious being.

    It’s only a matter of time, now.

    You try to focus on something, anything, to ignore that buzzing sound. Your family, your friends, your loved ones, your pets, your work, or your hobby. You close your eyes, and try to drift into your thoughts and your experiences. You float in your head, dreaming of instances that have come and gone, and can only be relived inside of you. You know you’re safe in there, and the buzzing begins to recede.

    I told you it was too late to do anything than continue, didn’t I?

    A pulse bursts through your skull and your memory changes. What once was a happy time in the park with your parents, is you all alone, abandoned by the unloving people that gave birth to you. What once was a happy time commemorating your 10th birthday, is now you all alone, your parents abandoning you, and all others your age shunning you. A happy relationship with your significant other? A horrible death at your hands, splattered with blood and gore, and a deeply sad, pitiable look in their fading eyes as they look to you for a reason why. Your pets? Your next meal, as you devour their still living flesh, flailing and weakly attempting to flee. Your work? A collection of failure and broken dreams, a reminder to all around you of what you could have been, had you not suffered such a callous fate.

    Your hobby? Well, that’s the only thing you really have left. But it’s not the one you originally had that brought you pleasure.

    You open your eyes, and look for a window. At any given time, you can usually find one person on the street somewhere. In houses, in cars, in walkways, and in their own heads. So many delightfully ignorant people. So many willing puppets. So many inconspicuous brothers and sisters to thank, by freeing them from this hell of flesh and life. To see them offer themselves up to the grand purpose of our species. To propagate through the mutual destruction of others. The other beasts around us that call themselves “human”.

    They can hear the buzzing, too. Just like you could, before you were made to listen to the buzzing in the back of the heads of every human being on this Earth. Soon, they too shall hear that buzzing sound in the back of their heads, and realize how they are truly meant to be. And when enough of our brothers and sisters finally wake up? That’s when we can finally make some REAL noise…

Creepypasta: Silence

Have you ever been by yourself, late at night, and just listened to the silence?

You haven't. Because silence does not exist. But it IS still attainable.

Take a moment, if you will, and try to be as quiet as you can. Focus on making as little noise as you can. No movements. Slow, shallow breaths. Focus on the silence, and attaining it.

Now, what do you hear? Do you hear the hum of the lights in your room, atonal and melodic in it's activity? If you do, turn them off, and try again.

Try to be as quiet as you can. Focus on making as little noise as you can. No movements. Slow, shallow breaths. Focus on the silence, and attaining it.

Now, what do you hear? Do you hear the sound of your computer, working itself to the rhythm of it's patterns and calls? If you do, turn it off, and try again.

Try to be as quiet as you can. Focus on making as little noise as you can. No movements. Slow, shallow breaths. Focus on the silence, and attaining it.

Now, what do you hear? Do you hear the sound of your blood, coursing through your veins? If you do, find a place where your heart becomes quiet, and the rush of blood makes itself as silent as the Earth. Then, try again.

Try to be as quiet as you can. Focus on making as little noise as you can. No movements. Slow, shallow breaths. Focus on the silence, and attaining it.

Now, what do you hear? Do you hear the sound of your breath, laboring in and out of you? If you do, slow your breathing down further, till your lungs begin to burn, and a weight makes itself known in your chest. Then, try again.

Try to be as quiet as you can. Focus on making as little noise as you can. No movements. Slow, shallow breaths. Focus on the silence, and attaining it.

Now, what do you hear? Do you hear the sound of my lungs not making a sound? The hollowness of the lack of my knuckles cracking, while I lift my craggy hands towards your silent person? The emptiness of my weight preventing even the tiniest creak to escape? The acquiescence of your very existence giving itself up to the silence you so desperately sought?

Shhhhh, it's too late now. You wanted to know if silence truly existed. I'm just here to make sure the silence remains.

Creepypasta: Her Routine

    Every night, Diane begins her routine at 6:24 P.M. with a light dinner, watching a romantic movie. She thinks of everything in her life, and how there's nothing in her life that matches the film she watches. Sometimes it's a comedy, sometimes it's a thriller, and on the rare occasion, an Erotic film. She always had a problem with outright porn, but if it's a steamy film where tension and passion played before her, she could handle the sex scenes well enough. But as long as the romance is there, she enjoys whatever is before her. Which most would consider a shame, because she is of the mindset that there really isn't that much to her life.

She's a pretty girl. She's 23, she's got a business degree, works at a local credit union. She's got full blonde hair, eyes like the color of the sky in the early morning, and blessed with looks that don't need makeup. If she matched her features, she would be a bright, cheery, outgoing person. The world would go out of it's way for her, just for the subtle warmth of her smile. But she only smiles politely, and her eyes hide clouds that she just can't seem to clear away. An interminable sadness that shaded every friendship, every suitor's attempts, and every single joy she could have had. She chooses to remain hidden, because she feels that's the only thing in her life that is real.

As she finishes her meal around 7:22, she quickly washes her dishes, with the film playing loudly to cover the sounds of her tears as they get washed down the drain. A meal is meant for more than one person, she tells herself, and no one would love her enough to break bread with her. More tears fall, as she realizes how hard she is on herself, and that just drives the feelings deeper into her heart. She finishes her scant few dishes, and rushes back to the TV. She curls herself into a ball, covers herself with a blanket, turns on a light, and finishes whatever film she's watching.

By 8:20, the film usually finishes, and with a groan, she lifts herself out of her seat, and proceeds to her bedroom in her apartment, quickly changes into her exercise clothes, grabs her iPod filled to the brim with somber sonatas, and longing arias and ballads, and begins to run around the block until 9:35. By 9:39, she has stripped herself, and started to prepare her bath, hot as it can get, but just before pain meets her godliness. When she climbs in, she plays more songs of romance and loss, sets the timer on her phone, and lies in the tub, pondering what to do with her sense of despair and longing.

She closes her eyes, and imagines the sight of her father's body, flensed open, intestines and other organs lovingly piled onto the floor, to make room for her mother's head, and the corpse of her sister, positioned in a way to promote a sense of violation by their father. And with each stroke of the loofah, she tries desperately to wash away the images that she knows will haunt her for the rest of her life. The sense of revulsion, still present in her mind after five years of cleaning and isolation. The taste of her bile, rising in her throat with each reminder that she could do nothing to help them otherwise. The pain in her heart, that wells up in her throat with each choking sob. And when the timer goes off at 10:16, she opens her eyes, sees the bleeding marks where she scrubbed too hard and too long, rinses herself with the shower head, and proceeds to get dressed.

At 10:34, she heads to the kitchen for her ritualistic pre-bedtime snack of popcorn and cocoa, goes to the living room, pops in another film, usually something lighter hearted than what was played earlier, and slowly spends her time attempting to forget her life. But every time she begins to lose herself to something she enjoys, the flashes of her family's bodies, splayed out on her bed, rushes to her mind's eye, and spoils the mood she thought to allow herself some respite in. When she finds herself finished with her snack midway through the film, she rushes to wash the dishes, hurries to her seat, wraps up in her blanket, and finishes the film at 12:15, even sitting through the credits.

By 12:26, she has changed her clothes, turned off all the lights, locked every door and window, heads to her bedroom, and programs her charging phone to set off an alarm to wake her at 7:30 AM. Then she climbs into bed, and stares at the ceiling, with only one image burning into her brain. The image of words, written in blood, above the corpses of her loved ones, in large, unmistakable letters, that has robbed her of any sense of love or feeling of connection for 5 years.

I LOVE YOU, DIANE. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.

It's been 5 years since that day, and she spends every last waking moment counting the days towards her birthday, and every moment of that day in fear and isolation. She believes that whoever did this will appear again, and the next time they do, it will be at her cost, and more of a display than what happened to her parents. Then, she rolls onto her right side, counts the change of the day, and by 1:00 AM, closes her eyes, and falls asleep.

Another day of a beauty trapped in her own tower, afraid of the Prince that will come for her. And I smile to myself, as I longingly stare at her through the window as she sleeps, like I do every night for over 5 years. Her birthday is in a couple days. I really should do something to surprise her, like last time.

Creepypasta: A Bad Split

    I know we're broken up, but I had to get you over here to talk to you.

I still love you. I probably always will. When the light played off your hair, and the way you smiled... I still melt thinking of it. I often think of how we first met. I had just come home, and you had moved in from down the street. You were gorgeous from the word "go". Your long dark hair, your crystal blue eyes, every delicate feature at play. I ran indoors, and had to work up the courage to talk to you. But then again, you beat me to it when you knocked on my door.

You were always good at knowing when things were timed just right.

I could tell you really liked me, too. I'm not much to look at, I know. But I guess we were meant to meet. After that, you would come over, and hang out. Watching movies, playing games. When your parents were out of town, I'd sneak over and waste the night with you. Remember the time the house was struck by lightning, and your roof caught on fire? You screamed and panicked really badly. You were so afraid your parents would catch us, and blame me for trying to burn down the house! Thankfully, I ran home and got a hose and put it out. Even when your parents came home early, I made the excuse that you had run over and got my help, which kept them appeased.

I quickly kissed you goodnight when they weren't looking.

After that, we spent so much time together. I told your parents I offered to be your "tutor", and really did help you with school. But I guess I should have seen what was going on after that. You started becoming cold, not returning my calls or barely talking to me. In fact, I knew something was wrong when I saw some other boy walking out of your house. The next day I asked you about it, and you told me that you were thinking about your situation, and how maybe I was a mistake. I was on the verge of tears. Here we were, on the edge of nearly a year together, all the things I did for you, all the things I decided not to ask for, and being respectful and everything ANY GIRL COULD WANT, and I was the one who was the mistake?! I couldn't help myself when I stormed out of the house!

Then you started to torment me.

Every day, you would come over. In less and less clothing. Openly flirting with me! Openly MOCKING me! And I could do nothing, or else draw suspicion! Every time, I asked, I BEGGED you to stop, and your automatic response? "What would my parents have to say about what we've been doing?" You kept crushing my heart, over and over, and you wouldn't stop.

Then you brought your friends into it.

Mocking me. Flirting with me. Showing open contempt for me. You used me, and every time you reminded me of it, I died a little more each time. Until tonight, when I asked you to come over. You made the most of it, didn't you? Makeup, black and pink bikini, nice shoes, hair in pigtails, bubble gum, everything. You wanted to see me cry, and you did. Every single word, every barb, everything was orchestrated. You said that this was the greatest moment in your life. The realization of the "secret power" you had, and how you reveled in every second of my torture. I was just a place holder for someone more handsome, more refined, and much easier with his money.

You turned around, strutting your body, and saying that no boy could fuck you like you had fucked me.

Until I fucked your gut with the knife when you turned back, that is.

Your eyes were so wide. Did it feel like what that boy did to you? Did it feel like every time you ruined my pride? Ruined my hopes? Ruined everything that I gave for you? THAT I DID FOR YOU?! I kept thrusting and thrusting, your eyes dilating wider. I could tell you felt an explosion of pleasure. The way you shuddered with each piercing stroke, I'm sure of it. Like every night, when you would cuddle close to me, and the feeling of my fingertips on your thigh. The sensation of my lips behind your ear. The feeling of my breath on your neck line. I know all the signs, honey. We were together for about a year.

Then, like each time, you closed your eyes, and went slack. But I knew that this time, you wouldn't wake up. And I was okay with that. After all, I gave you the ultimate sensation, didn't I? No other boy could give you a thrill like that. No, not a boy. A MAN. Because that's what I am. I gave you something you would never forget, and you will never be forgotten for it. All that's left now is to clean up, and get you home. After all, tomorrow is going to be known for 3 milestones.

You start 6th grade. It's our one year anniversary. And my 42nd birthday.

Even though we're through, I'll always love you.

Creepypasta Short: Blink of an Eye

It's one thing to look up at the sky, and gaze at the stars.

It's another thing, when you look up at the stars, and see the sky blink, realizing that the sky is gazing back at you.

I don't look at the stars anymore...

Creepypasta: The Blackout Curtain

It was a very long day, and an even longer night.

You went to work, freezing from the cold snap that swept into your town. The ice on the window was the first sign of the trudging effort you'd have to endure, followed by the sight of snow on the ground. An unforeseen blitzkrieg of winter at the end of a very sporadic and intense fall, the wetter times have all but guaranteed the immediate crawl of all life. The fact that the pace at work matched the creeping chill only drew out the overcast, deeply darkened skies above you. A sky so dark, in fact, that the street lights had to be turned on for the general populace to do anything at all downtown. You were sure the light across from your window would be on when you got home.

The night was no better. You were pulled out of your house by your friends, no warning, just a quick "Hey, how are you? Let's get hammered!", followed by a long evening of hopping between 4 bars, a fight, a bad gash sending one of your friends to the hospital, and you ending the night by drunkenly walking home during the darkest night of snow and ice you've ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Your feet could barely keep you up, due to both Mother Nature deciding to make everyone suffer, as well as the levels of alcohol coursing through you. You slipped and slid along the frozen concrete, helplessly guiding yourself towards the streetlight in front of your bedroom window, the only light in your section of town for more than two blocks. A beacon in the darkness, calling you home.

But with every step, more and more traction was lost, until you were mere steps away from the light, and your footing left you entirely. You fell forward, and in the mad hope of somehow preventing yourself from getting hurt, attempted to grab the lamppost. But your fall was faster than your hands, as your head met the chilled metal. And with the force to rock the light, you glanced off to the side, and fell into unconsciousness.

The winds began to howl, as the cold brought you out of your stasis. The melted snow was now a part of your clothes, as more drifted down on top of you. With an effort and undue resistance, you brought yourself up from beside the light, and hazily made your way inside. The pain in your head, the chill of the night, the damp clothes you were wearing, and the unforeseen length of time the day brought to you is now too much, and you quickly make your way to your room.

You strip your clothes to the point nearing indecency, as you stumble through your dark house, to your room, thankful of the blackout curtains you bought to prevent the light from outside disturbing you. A notoriously light sleeper, insomnia was something you were all too aware of. Any slight disturbance, and you were wide awake. That's not to say you couldn't fall back asleep. But it is far too easy for you to wake, and the lamppost did not help matters.

You wobble through the bedroom door, drowsiness and pain dulling your movements. You can feel your legs tipping from one side to the next, and you struggle to keep moving forward. You know this room like the back of your hand, but you are thoroughly surprised when you feel your leg bang into the side of the bed. Shocked, you yelp as you fall forward, thankful that you finally found your bed, but not in the manner you wished. You rub your shin, as you throw yourself entirely onto the mattress, and tightly huddle under the blankets. You begin to warm up, and the shivering sensation begins to ease, and finally fade. And you begin to fall into sleep.

A heavy, steady sound by your window pulls you out of your sleep. Muffled, and very loud, you can make out the sound of someone breathing. Close, and possibly very large, the labored breaths are like a dagger in your skull. In a moment of respite from the cold and the pain you are currently feeling, whoever was outside your window was disturbing you. A burglar, you think to yourself, or some homeless person looking for a place to squat for the night. All you want is sleep, and the person is preventing that from happening. You know you have to get rid of him.

"I have a gun", you loudly proclaim, "And I'm not afraid of using it! Now go away!"

The breathing quickly stops, and you're sure that whoever was there is gone. So you close your eyes, and fall back to sleep.

The sound of heavy, muffled breathing pulls you back from your sleep. You can feel your temples throb, as the frustration begins to mount. The entire day is taking it's toll on you, and all you crave is sleep. You shuffle on your bed, attempting to block the noise from disturbing you further. You toss and turn, you cover your head with the blankets, the pillows, your hands, but the loud breaths continue. You become more adamant in your goal of sleep.

"GET LOST! I NEED TO FUCKING SLEEP, AND I DON'T WANT YOU IN HERE! NOW GO, BEFORE I SHOOT YOUR FUCKING ASS!", you scream.

Like before, the breathing quickly stops, and your anger begins to subside. You feel the cold on your face, and you quickly become comfortable, and fall quickly into slumber. You are just happy to finally get some peace and quiet.

The sound of the wind wakes you, strong and loud across the roof. You finally begin to lose your temper, growling in obvious contempt, and you know you won't get sleep tonight. You curse your luck, and wish the night would just end.

Then you hear it. The sound of someone breathing, muffled and heavy. You flip yourself over, prepared to scream at the person who keeps leering at you through your curtain, and disturbing your sleep for the last time. You climb onto your knees, kneeling in front of your window, and quickly grab for your curtain, planning on flinging it open, and telling whoever was there off for the last time.

You jab your hand forward, grabbing the cloth in front of you. And feel the thickness of whoever is in front of your window, as you grab the cold, wet clothing they are wearing, their breath closed to your ears, now uncovered from the blanket you had wrapped around yourself. And the curtain flutters in the breeze, coming from the window, long opened from before you climbed into bed.

Creepypasta: Don't Cry

    Hey, come on now! Don't cry! Don't cry! I know things are bad for you right now, and all you want is for everything to just fade away, but you know that won't happen. That's not how the world works. You were always a crybaby, and I know it's your only real way to cope with things, but you have to stop.

Do you remember when mom and dad asked you what you wanted for your birthday, more than anything in the world, when you were 8? And what did you want? A puppy. Your parents didn't think it was a good idea, so you cried and cried for almost a week. And on your birthday, what was their gift? A bicycle. So you cried and cried, until you heard some little barks, and then you saw her running from the kitchen. She was little, and yellow, and so happy to be around you. What did you call her? That's right! You called her Matilda.

The next couple of months flew by so fast, didn't they? Mom and dad started to argue, but you didn't care. You had Matilda, and that was all that really mattered. But one morning, you woke up, and Matilda wasn't there, was she? So you told your parents, and they immediately went looking for her, asking for you to trust them. And you cried and you cried, until a few days later, they found her in a ditch. And you cried and cried, until well after a week after you buried her. And you never wanted another puppy again.

Do you remember a couple years later, when daddy came to see you after the divorce, that he took you to see his new girlfriend? All the rage you felt, all the loneliness? All the deep feelings of losing something very important to you? Do you remember what you asked your mom what you should do? In her drunken candor, saying that death is the only time that loss counts as keeping someone or something, like Matilda? You spent your time in your room, crying your eyes out again. The next night, you were staying with your father, when his girlfriend tried to make nice, but she talked to your father like you were some kind of freak?

"She won't open up to me", she said. "She won't TRUST me, and I wish she would." And you cried yourself to sleep that night. And the next morning, your father's scream coming from the bathroom, and you ran to him, and all the blood that was all over the bathroom floor? Her body in the tub, alcohol and pills everywhere, her slit wrist limply hanging over the side? The shock must have been too much, because you didn't cry after that. In fact, even at the funeral you didn't cry. You seemed... at ease about it. One could say that you were even happy about her death. To be honest, it was quite a while before you cried again. High school, I believe.

Do you remember him? Johnny Whitmueller. He was such a nice kid. Football player, handsome, hard working, had bought his own car by the age of 16. He was such a catch. You'd say you were the opposite. Shy, so reserved about everything, no friends to speak of. So alone. But out of the blue, he asked you to Prom, and everyone was so shocked. Here he was, the Big Man on Campus, and he wanted to go with some nobody wallflower, instead of the Captain of the Cheerleaders. Word spread quickly. Then the rumors moved faster, didn't they?

Slut. Pity case. Skank. Wannabe welfare queen. Trailer trash. Cat lady. That one was the most preposterous. You don't really LIKE animals, now do you? All these mean, hateful little words, used to kill you from the inside out. You didn't outwardly cry, but everyone could see you wanted to. So they got worse, eventually moving to slapping you, abusing you, holding you down and cutting your hair, forcing you to wear gaudy makeup. And the teachers? They never lifted a finger. They really didn't care, considering most of the kids doing it to you were theirs. So you put up with it.

But Prom is where everything went to Hell for you, didn't it?

You were so pretty. You actually spent time taking care of yourself, and you paid attention to what was fashionable. And your nice, white dress, it looked like a wedding dress. Anyone could see that you would have been the most beautiful bride in the world. And Johnny was so handsome in his suit, perfectly tailored and looking like a model. The red corsage he placed on your white glove was so nice, the perfect splash of color. He really was your Prince Charming, wasn't he?

The event itself wasn't that spectacular, but you didn't care. Johnny was there, and he did everything correct, and he said all the right things. You hadn't even noticed they were getting ready for the coronation of the Prom Queen and King until one of the Cheerleaders reminded everybody of the nominees. You were shocked when you were announced as one of the candidates. And when it came to the announcement of who the queen was, you were evening more surprised that you had won.

Everybody cheered for you when you walked onto the stage, tears streaming down your face, your delicate makeup running slightly. But that happiness was short lived. One of the cheerleaders announced that they had a special video, and pulled a screen down, and a projection start playing. A video of some nameless cheerleader and Johnny, having sex. She egged him on, asking him why he was taking you to Prom. Your tears wouldn't stop when he said he didn't care about you, how he was only using you. You were there for his amusement, and then you would be thrown away.

He tried to tell you otherwise, but you ran away. You ran and you ran, falling down and messing up your dress. You broke the heels of your shoes, but you just threw them away and continued running home. Mom tried to ask you what happened, but you ran to your room, locked the door, and cried and cried for days afterward. There were even days when you woke up, cried, and then went back to bed, that's how much it hurt. Do you remember what I said then? I said I'd make the pain, and all the things associated with it go away. You just had to trust me.

Do you remember how Johnny died? How, drunken and with some girl all over him, he rolled his car into a ravine and killed the both of them? That's not necessarily my fault, but the alcohol was. Do you remember your daddy's girlfriend? Well, not the alcohol and pills, but the wrists were mine. As for Matilda, I felt I would lose you if you learned about responsibility. I couldn't have that. Just like I can't have you crying right now.

Shhhh, shh. Don't cry, alright? Just let the feeling wash over you. Just relax. It's just something in your milk I put in for you. So please, don't cry, okay? You know I don't want to see you cry. Just like I don't want to lose you.

Mommy doesn't want to lose her precious, delicate little girl.

Creepypasta: Mr. Dark and Mrs. Red

    A boy lived in a haunted house. Every night, he would be disturbed by the screaming and yelling that occurred below him, and he would sit on the stairs before the front door, and cry. Every time he closed his eyes in the empty room he called his own, he could feel the sensation of being shaken, and hear the muffled shouting of a man. He would jolt aware time and again, and stay awake every night. Whenever he thought about closing his eyes, he would shake, as if going into a seizure. He hated feeling it. And he hated the feeling of being alone, wishing that his mother and father would come home soon.

When the screaming would finally die off, he could hear the sound of his door opening, and a woman, surrounded by a red haze would enter his room, hover for a minute, sobbing uncontrollably, and then disappear. The boy never knew what to call her, so he called the woman in the red mists Mrs. Red. It was apparent to him that she cried because of the other person in his home that mainly resided downstairs, and every night that she came, he wished, as hard as anyone can wish, that he could at least hug her, and tell her it would be okay. But he could never get the courage to talk to her.

He would wait a few minutes after Mrs. Red left, and then head back to the stairs, to stare into the living room where the TV would be on every night. A man in white mists, called Mr. Dark because he only appeared in darkness and while the TV was on, sat in a chair, never moving, never speaking. The boy would watch him for hours, until the TV would turn back off, and Mr. Dark would disappear. Every night, the boy could see Mr. Dark's anger, but he could also see something greater beyond it: sadness. The boy could tell Mr. Dark was sad, like his heart had been broken, and no one could help him repair it. So the boy would silently cry for Mr. Dark, and knew that his words to Mrs. Red was pain instead of anger, but the both of them responded as if it was. And that made the boy even lonelier.

Eventually, the morning would come, and the boy would stand up, wipe his eyes, and proceed to leave. Every day, he promised himself he would find someone to help him, leave forever, and never come back. He would fling open the door, rush outside, and make straight for the woods. He had been through them many times, and knew all the landmarks. Tiller's Creek. The Tadpole Whirls. The half charred tree that was felled by lightning. He knew the backwoods path to get to the city and the police station. But every time he reached the tree, like clockwork, he would grow very tired, lay beside the charred tree, and fall asleep. And like clockwork, every time he would wake up, it would be near dark, and the fear of what was in the woods would force him to hurry home.

Home to the empty house, with Mr. Dark and Mrs. Red.

And every night, he could hear the screaming and yelling, and all he could do was sit on the stairs, and cry.

One night, the screaming was incredibly powerful, and the words being yelled were despairingly painful. And then he heard something he had never heard before: Mrs. Red was fighting back. She screamed that if Mr. Dark hadn't dared treat he like he actually loved her, then maybe they both wouldn't have been hurt so badly. Mr. Dark railed back that she's truly at fault, but Mrs. Red would have none of it. Her words became more spiteful, and Mr. Dark's became more pitiful, until without notice, the house became quiet.

Usually, when the house became quiet, Mrs. Red would appear in the boy's room, cry, and then disappear. But that night, the boy waited and waited, but Mrs. Red didn't come. He opened his door, called out to her, peeked his head into the hallway, but she wouldn't appear. He checked downstairs, and saw that the TV was off, but Mr. Dark was sitting in the living room. All alone. Crying. And the boy didn't know what to do, so he sat down on the stairs, and cried with Mr. Dark.

For a long while, the boy would attempt his escape, fall asleep, return, and spend the rest of the night crying on the stairs with Mr. Dark. For a long while, he promised he would leave and never return, and come back. For a long while, he would see the pain that Mr. Dark felt, and feel it too. And for a long while, he would wish as hard as anyone could for his parents to come home. And he would close his eyes, go into a slight fit, hear the muffled shouting in his ears, and bring himself back to awareness. But every day he would return, and every night his parents never came home. And every night, he became lonelier still.

Then one day, he flung open his door and ran for the backwoods. He didn't promise himself anything, and he decided to just get as far away as he could. No Mr. Dark. No Mrs. Red. No more loneliness, or screaming, or crying. Just get as far as possible, and to not look back.

He reached Tiller's Creek, and stopped to catch his breath. He felt his head starting to turn back towards the house, but he refused to and began to run again.

He reached the Tadpole Whirls and collapsed on the bank. He stared at the swirling water, and followed it's movement down the stream. When he realized that he was starting to look back at the house, he twisted his neck with a loud, thick pop, stood up, and began running again.

He reached the charred tree, and fell into it very heavily. His head met the wood, and he became unconscious. He felt great pain, and he could see the outlines of a man in darkness, reaching for him, and screaming with great urgency. There was something familiar about him, but the boy's vision was greatly impaired. He could tell there was something important in what the man was saying, but his screaming was so muffled that he couldn't make out one word. He turned to look at the man, but the boy's sight lolled to the side, and he could see a woman outlined in red, rushing towards the two of them. And then darkness.

The boy woke up in the forest, and it was well past nightfall. The boy scrambled to his feet, and ran towards the sound of running water. He quickly reached the Tadpole Whirls, and collapsed at the bank. His ragged breathing from fear and sprinting quickly caught in his throat when he saw the pools frozen still. He looked down the stream, not one thing moving, not even the water, and the boy became even more scared. He ran towards Tiller's Creek, the lack of sound deafening him, and causing him to shake uncontrollably. He had to get home. He had to get to his empty, lonely home.

When he broke through the forest, he made a made dash for the door. He grabbed the knob, flung it open, and was greeted with absolute darkness. No TV, no lights, no furniture, no Mr. Dark. Now the boy was truly and utterly alone. He ran from room to room, calling for the two figures he had spent so much time with. But both Mrs. Red and Mr. Dark were gone. Just like his parents.

So the lonely boy went to the stairs that he tripped and fell down many years ago, breaking his neck in front of his father as he got home, sat down, and began to cry. Wishing as hard as anyone can wish that his parents would come home soon.

Creepypasta: Please, Let Me In!

Today's my 30th birthday. I don't give a damn about it, just like my parents. It's just another day in this crappy little town. In fact, I don't give a damn about anything, really. I never have. I spend my days going to work at a local supermarket, maybe buying a book or two, going home, going online and going to sleep. That's it. My home is barely furnished: one office chair, one bed, one desk, one table (with four chairs "because you never KNOW who might come to visit!" as my dad put it). Other than that, there's nothing really special about where I'm at.

It's funny. This year I actually wanted to do something to celebrate (like a movie or going out to eat), but my parents shot me down last week. Said they were heading to California for a vacation. It's odd they actually wanted to go somewhere, but it's not unnatural, I guess. People get tired of being in the same place all year, every day. I didn't push the matter, and told them to not have too much fun. "That's not the point of this trip!" Mom told me. "This is just as much business as pleasure, right dear?" I could hear my parents getting amorous over the phone, and made a hasty exit before I heard other unnecessary sounds that no child should hear.

So that leads me here, in my house, alone. It's alright, I guess. Looking at the clock, I see it's 11:03. The day's almost over. No friends to speak of, no girlfriend, no distractions. Nothing to get in the way of my reading-

*knock* *knock* *knock*

"Who is it?"

"Please! Let me IN!" a distressed voice replied.

*knock knock knock*

"PLEASE! I BEG YOU! LET ME IN!"

I rushed to the door, flung it open, and there she was. She looked frightened, sweat soaking her tangled hair, disheveled dark clothes. To be honest, she looked like she was ready for a funeral or something.

"Please, may I come in?" she pleaded.

I lead her in without question. As I set her at the table, I rushed for a glass of water. She snatched it out of my hand like a dying man in the desert, and drank it like she had not had it in years. When she finished, her eyes rolled, a contented smile crossed her face. She came back to focus on me, pleased that I responded.

"Now that your composure has come back, what's the problem?" I asked her.

She sank into herself a bit, and became nervous.

"Don't worry, nothing bad will happen!"

"The Devil..." she muttered.

"What?"

"The Devil is after me."

"The Devil. Is after you..." I snorted .

"DON'T LAUGH! HE'S REAL, and I escaped him!" she rose in anger, tears starting to flow from her eyes. "I know it's preposterous, but I fled from him. I fled from HELL ITSELF! I didn't deserve to go there, and YET-" She slumped to the floor, bawling like a child that lost it's parents.

Stunned by her reaction, I didn't know what to say.

"I guess... I guess you could stay here until we figure something out." I said, making sure to make a note to call the Department of Human Services about getting her evaluated. She looked at me, eyes wide, and sprung in for a hug.

"THANK YOU! THANK YOU-"

*KNOCK* *KNOCK* *KNOCK*

Any joy she had dropped from her face. Her eyes went from happy to terrified, and she started trembling badly.

"HE'S HERE! HE'S HERE! I FEEL HIM!" she screamed.

"That can't be him. He's not real-"

"HE'S HERE! HE'S HERE! HE'S HERE! HE'S HERE!" She gripped me tighter than before. "DON'T ANSWER HIM! PLEASE! DON'T ANSWER HIM! PLEASE! PLEASE!"

I gently removed her from me, and worked up my nerve.

"Who's there?"

Silence.

"Tell me who's there. I won't open the door until you respond."

*KNOCK knock knock KNOCK knock KNOCK KNOCK*

The "Two bits" gag. My dad's signature knocking sequence (heavy, followed by the gag).

"It's my dad! Guess they're back from vacation..." I said as I strode to the door. My companion remained quiet.

"Hey, dad! Welcome ba-"

The man on the other side of the door was not my father. He was tall, but thin. A full head of hair, clean shaven, in a nice black suit. His eyes were piercing, like he knew exactly what everyone was going to do, and use it to his advantage.

"May I come in?", a smile crossing his face.

"Who are you?" I was confused. My father was the only man I knew who used that knock, and here was this guy, dressed too nicely for this town, staring at me like a piece of meat.

"I'm just as your friend said." he motioned his head. "So do me a favor? Invite me in, so I can claim what's mine."

"You have to be invited? If you ARE the Devil, then what are you here to claim? Her? No chance." I was confident that he would give up this ruse eventually, so I had to hold out.

"Oh, dear boy." he chuckled. "I'm not here for her! I'm here for YOU!"

I didn't know why, but my stomach dropped. ME?! Why me?!

"30 years ago today, your parents gave birth to you. 6 months prior to that, they found out they were having a child. You see, they desperately didn't want one. They considered all their options: abuse, alcohol, drugs, abortion. But when they reached their lowest point, I came to them." His eyes drew more into mine, and the fear grew.

"I offered them an out. You see, they wanted what most people want: fame, money, beauty, youth. Well, my offer was this: raise your child in one major sin, and on his 30th birthday, I can claim him and you get what you want! I am, after all, a fair man. So here I am, with you, and they are at their place, starting a new life..."

Raise me in one sin? I don't know what the hell he's talking about, but I know I've never committed any sins!

"And what one sin would that be?" I asked.

"Oh, just the one sin that is based in ignorance and distrust more than any other. You have no friends, technically no family, you do nothing with your life, you don't care for anything or anyone around you...."

It suddenly clicked in my head.

"Apathy, also called Sloth."

"And here I thought you didn't CARE..." he chided.

The comment hurt me. The fact that he was saying my parents purposefully raised me like that left me confused and upset.

"Speaking of caring, what did you do to my parents?" I questioned.

"Gave them what they wanted. You're mother is going to be the most depraved person since the Marquis de Sade! Anyone and anyTHING that makes her happy, she'll use and abuse until she's bored with it. Too bad it's going to be a short life, since her now drug running husband will get jealous and kill her and every person she uses for her pleasure. They're going to be FAMOUS, just... not for the reason they expected!" His smile grew bigger. "I AM fair, after all..."

This man is insane. There's no way the Devil exists. If he WAS the Devil, then all I had to do was wait him out. I glanced at the clock.

"11: 59. So, may I come in? Do answer quickly."

I smiled. His gambit was a wash. All I had to do was wait him out, and he would leave me alone.

"Of course you may come in!"

My eyes widened. I quickly turned to look at my guest, standing prim and proper. She straightened herself, smiling at the man who just entered my home.

"You don't realize how much this pleases me!" the man said!

My heart dropped.

"Why? Why did you let him in?! I thought you were AFRAID of him?!"

"Who? MARY?! Why would she be afraid of me?" He started.

She cuddled up to him, eyes closed. I realized why she came first before she even said it. I realized it when I saw the ring I hadn't seen before on her finger.

"After all, he IS my husband! And it's not nice to keep a husband and wife apart!"

Creepypasta: Companions

    A man was alone on his deathbed, surrounded by the demons that haunted him his entire life. They smiled down at him, never blinking, never faltering. Staring down, at a life they watched for all of his existence. He never really knew pain or joy, suffering and triumph. A blase life of mediocrity and unfulfilled potential. No children, no wife. All attempts at joy, negated entirely by the presence of these things watching him. Never staring at anything else but him.

"Why do you exist?" he asked them.

"We exist because YOU exist. You are our reason for being, just as our reason will be yours. We have watched you since your life began, and we will watch until you are passed on. Your entire life has been filled by us." The demons each taking a part, multitonal and of different projections, saturated in a sense of loving and dread.

The man, ragged breaths labored in pain and struggle, were drawn into his frail existence.

"So when I tried to ask Sarah Dermon out back in the 5th Grade..."

The demons tilted there heads in the same angle, at the same time. Shadows covering their faces, except for the same blank white eyes, no pupils, and seemingly separate from their heads entirely.

"You had no need for her. We were all you needed. We are your mother and your father. We are your lover and your child. As we have told you, your entire life has been filled by us."

The man saw the deep affection the demons had for him, tears beginning to well up in his eyes. Did these things truly love him? Were these things toying with him? Why, out of all of these years of loneliness, desperation, separation and agony, did these things finally come to him, and tell him all this? He didn't know, and as his eyes and body began to grow heavy, didn't care.

"I had no children because of you? I had no real LIFE because of you? I couldn't BE SOMEONE because of YOU?! WHY?! WHY TELL ME THIS NOW?! IF YOU LOVED ME, THEN I WOULD HAVE BEEN MARRIED! BEEN A FATHER!BEEN LOVED!"

"But you were loved. We love you. We have, and always will, love you. You are growing tired. Rest now. And let our love put you at ease."

The machines to monitor the man's vitals were beginning to go haywire, beeping and buzzing loudly. The man trained his eyes on the things by his bed, fighting the urge to be drug into an uneasy slumber. The things closed their seemingly lidless eyes, one being at a time, until only one remained. This one, darkest shadows with the brightest white eyes, stared at him so deeply, that he could not help but feel that it was looking directly into his soul. Disturbing, but with a sense of peace in knowing that it cared for him.

The man knew at that moment that this thing truly cared for him. He knew this thing, whatever it was, wanted him to know that it loved him. And all it wanted was for him to be at peace. So, with one last release, the man closed his eyes, and slept.

Then the man woke up.

He was in a room full of children, freshly born, swathed and cared for. He looked at all the demons before him, and saw that they stared back at him. And slowly they turned towards a child, laying in her place. They all made room for their newest and urged him to look at her. The man did not know why they wanted him to look. He thought he should get someone, a nurse, a doctor, a parent, ANY ONE. He knew that these things had an intention that was alien to know. But he knew he had to find it, and he knew it laid with the child.

So, with care and trepidation, he took the spot he was urged, looking at the others around him, and carefully turned his head towards the child.

All at once, he realized why they wanted him to look at her. She was small, so delicate, so hopeful. She was all potential that was ever available. She was to be loved, admired, adored. She was to be something to someone, and everything to everyone. She was to be, and that was what her purpose in life was. The man, looked at the child, smiled, and knew that his love was the only thing she was going to know.

The child stared up at the shadowed figures as their obscured faces seem to contort into what passed for a smile, their eyes bright white and deeply turned on her. They all tilted their heads at the exact same time, in the exact same angle.

They all knew, in the same exact thought, what their purpose was. To have her know their love. To be her love. And to have her grow in their grace, and share their love with another. For that is what love is truly about. And it's what they wanted. For they were her companions.

Creepypasta: Strobes

    Loneliness is a crippling dilemma. Especially for an insomniac. Many years ago, when my brother was getting married, he told me how, during a long period of insomnia, he learned from a man a technique to find out the one being with whom he was meant to be with. We had some drinks with a few of our friends, and when everyone else had passed out in the middle of the night, he told me exactly what to do.

He said it should be done on the darkest night of the year, in the darkest, quietest room of a house. So maybe blacking out windows, and muffling noises might be in order. In order to prepare for the event, you have to have been awake for at least 4 or more days in a row, no sleep, no rest, almost no food. Rest yourself on a bed or a couch when you're ready, and turn on a very soft, very weak source of light. Then stare at the ceiling. He said the ceiling was best because it was "the way all things look", as he was taught.

As you stare at the ceiling, the light will slowly start to ripple, like a strobe. First, a vague outline takes shape, humanoid in appearance, but clearly present. Don't blink or turn away, he said, for that prevents you from making things take shape. As the rippling effect picks up speed, the figure will become more detailed. By this point, your eyes should be starting to ache, but you have to resist the sensation until you complete filling in the details. Certain details like eyes, nose, mouth and ears should begin to take shape and color, as well as the type of build they would have. By this point, your eyes should be in serious pain, for you are breaking a semblance of time and space for this knowledge. DO NOT turn your eyes away or blink. Or it will be for naught.

Then, he said, the figure of the person before you will be able to see you. It's not uncommon for it to reach out to you, to try and touch you. DO NOT DO THIS. If you do, you're bridging your time and space with theirs, and by that point, you will vanish from reality altogether. Continue staring at the figure, until it looks exactly like a person is in the room with you. By this point, your eyes will be beyond the normal threshold, and will try to close themselves on you. RESIST DOING THIS, for you have one more thing to do. If you can resist, you will then be able to ask this form 3 questions.

Who are you?

Where will we meet?

When will we be together for all eternity?

Ask any other questions than these, and there will be a flash so bright, your sight will be taken, and a clap so loud, you shall no longer be able to hear a thing. And worst of all, this one chance at connection will be lost for all eternity. But if you are successful, the bridge shall be completed, and the figure shall slowly fade from above you. And you will be able to go on with your life, with the comfort of knowing your destined meeting.

But he also warned me about something else. The process only really works because of what lies in your heart. Lust, anger, greed, hatred, jealousy, or any other form of wickedness, and the effect will prove disastrous. "Love can only be truly attained with a pure heart," he pleaded, "and any other desire outside of the pure will call something other than what you intended. If this does happen, then look away before it fully takes shape. If it takes form, then you will belong to it, and it can claim you. It's for THAT REASON ALONE that I ask you to not do what I did."

"I was lucky", he said. "Very, VERY few are."

Like I said, it's been many years since he said that. My last girlfriend dumped my a year and a half ago, and the loneliness has been gnawing at me since then. So I'm going through with it. It took me a week or two to prepare, but I'm ready now. As I'm writing this, the bottle of Scotch to get me ready for this is almost empty, and if I fail, then I'm going to kill myself immediately afterwards. If I'm going to be alone, then I'm going OUT alone as well. No point in wasting time, huh?

Pray that I succeed. I'm... I'm just so SCARED of being alone.

Creepypasta: Streaks

    The weather has been off lately. It's the middle of Summer, and it still feels like March. Cold fronts have dominated the weather patterns, and it's been nothing but rain for the past 3 weeks. You don't mind the rain, but it keeps pouring and pouring, leaving little else to your eyes and ears. Especially at night, when the rain makes everything colder and more still than before. But you can put up with it. You have to. Warmth is coming, you know it.

Warmth. Warm. Your bed is warm, you say to yourself. You pick yourself up, turn off the lights, and climb into bed. Your close your eyes, dreaming of the sunny days sure to come.

You look out of your window that's right beside the bed, and see that the rain hasn't let up yet. You don't mind it. In fact, you pay close attention to the rain, falling onto your roof.

Tap. Tap. Tap. A pattern of sounding taps that create a sea of sound above and around you.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Awash in your warm bed, you sink further and further into sleep.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Nothing can pull you away from your bed, now.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A loud burst of thunder peals through the sky, and shakes your house. Your awake, startled by the thunder that jostled you from your sleep. Just thunder, you say. Just thunder. You climb out of bed, a little thirsty from sleeping in your warm bed. You head to the kitchen for something to drink. You go to the sink, pull a glass from the cupboard, and get some water. A contrasting coolness to your warm bed. You rinse your glass and look at the rain falling to the ground. Condensation has started creeping up the windows. You stare at the misty glass, surprised at how chilly it is in the middle of the warmest period of the year.

That's when you see the condensation crawl turn into a pattern before you. It works around some curves, long and narrow, creeping into a figure: a hand. The misty glass has revealed a hand print in the window. It's not unnatural for someone's hand to show up, you think. It's just someone's hand, after all. Maybe someone passed by the house when you were asleep. It's not the safest place in the world, but it's safe enough.

The mist continues crawling across the window, and you see that whoever did this left more than his hand streaked on your window. Words slowly form, and the condensation reveals the message.

IT'S SO COLD OUTSIDE

You stare at the window. Is there someone outside right now? You glance around, trying to see if there's someone trying to make their escape. A stupid prank, you think. Some kids passing by the house, thinking they can fuck with whoever lives there. You pay it no mind, put away your cup, and begin to walk to the bathroom.

The chill of the night starts to settle in, and you can hear the rain continue on your roof. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then, a soft peal of thunder, then the rain continues it's tapping. You take care of your business, and proceed to wash your hands. Drying them, you look in the mirror, thinking of what you're going to do when the summer sun comes back, and all the things you're going to do in the warm summer air. Yeah, warm. I should get back to bed, you think. Get back to sleep. It's too cold to-

It grabs your attention immediately. Even though your light is on, you see the condensation snaking across your bathroom mirror. It's cold, you think, but not THAT cold! It's shouldn't be moving this quickly! You can only stare at the misting mirror as another hand print reveals itself, longer and more narrow than the previous one. You head begins to spin as either someone is playing an elaborate prank on you, or you realize you're not alone. You stare at the mirror as it creeps past the hand, waiting for the words to appear.

"'It's so cold outside' again, right?", you say to yourself. You laugh nervously, wondering if the person is more imaginative than he first seemed. You watch as the mist reveals the message.

I'M SO COLD

That... wasn't as scary as you thought it would be. You laugh at the notion you were getting scared, and quickly brush it aside. You dry your hands, turn off the light, and make your way back to your room. As you climb into bed, you wrap yourself up and look out the window. The rain is still going strong, and you can't wait for your summer to actually begin. You listen to the rain as it's rhythm lulls you to sleep.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Your eyes start getting heavy.

Tap. Tap. Tap. The summer is about to begin.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Time to be in the warmth again.

Tap. Tap.

Mist begins crawling across your bedroom window. Right as you were on the verge of sleep, you caught sight of the mist racing across your window. Your eyes pop open as you see a hand reveal itself on the window, but this time, it's higher than the others.

It's just a prank, you say. You lay there watching in silence, the raindrops falling on deaf ears. The mist quickly begins to reveal words, and you stare as the words reveal themselves directly before your eyes.

YOUR BED IS SO WARM, written directly in front of you.

You feel a shifting on your bed, as a new weight loads itself directly behind you. You can feel something or someone wet, soaking all the heat from your body. It moves in close, placing it's head close behind yours. It's breath is cold and foul, like a bog or other body of water. It's heavy, ragged breathing is so close to yours that it feels like it's matching you on purpose. Your heart grows cold as you hear it speak to you in a raspy, gargling whisper.

YOU ARE SO WARM

Creepypasta: Out the Window

A writer woke up very early one morning, and decided to write a novel.

It's a normal thing for most writers to do this, but when he opened his eyes, the writer's mind clicked into one concept: sit at your computer, and write. Nothing more. So the writer got dressed, got something to eat, and proceeded to his desk. Now, the room his computer resided (his lair, as the writer affectionately called it) was surrounded by three large windows, one in each wall. Each had a large blackout curtain, connected to a pull by his desk, so that if he wanted absolute solace, he could close the curtain, and prevent even light from entering the lair.

In his darkened lair, the writer turned on his computer, typed his password, and opened a new file for his story. And then he just sat there. He probed his mind, worked the wheels in his head, and used all his faculties, but in the end came up wanting. He couldn't think of a story to save his life. So he just sat there for an indeterminate amount of time, wondering what he was supposed to write. He began new stories over and over, but with each attempt, he became more and more disgusted with what he was putting out.

He felt like he was drowning, the air for his stories being sunk in his failing attempts. So, gasping for air in a sense, the writer opened his curtain on his left. He closed his eyes to let the light sink in, took a deep breath and stood up to open the window. And the most unusual thing met his gaze. Outside his window, the streets and homes he once knew by heart were all gone, trees of many heights having taken their places. The writer was immediately confused, but then became bewildered at the body of a giant greyish-blue beast passing by.

The writer pulled himself together at the image outside, and quickly pulled his curtain shut. He scratched his head, he rubbed his eyes, he even pinched himself, but he quickly found that he was fully awake. Whatever was out that window was real. So the writer, berating himself for possibly believing that there was something impossible out his window, stared at the pulley for the left curtain, and quickly pulled it open again.

A burst of light tore through the edges of the curtain, and smoke wafted past the window as the writer saw what lay beyond. Trenches as far as the eye could see, men popping up, firing, and then dropping down again. A vast battlefield, muddy and strewn with metal and bodies, peppered by light from artillery in the distance, as the dulled booms echoed through the closed window. The mud from the explosions splattered across the window, tinged with the blood of the many men on the field, obscuring the battle that raged before the writers' eyes. He ran to the window, and flung it open, which was stupid of him to do, because an explosion blasted near him, launching the writer across the room.

In a daze by his desk, the writer stood up in time to see a smoke begin to float across the field, and the gasps and cries of many men followed. Faintly over the waning explosions did the writer's ears pick up the garbled phrases of "Mustard gas... masks... die." And the writer realized why he heard those words: a wind had picked up, and was blowing the smoke directly at him. His legs lazily responding, he rushed to the window as the gas wafted closer, slamming the window shut, as the oddly colored gas rolled across his window.

The writer walked to his desk, collapsed into his chair, and sat with his head on the back with his eyes closed. He had been through a lot in the span of a few minutes. An explosion, a gigantic beast, mustard gas, near death, the window that can let you interact with the past...

His head popped up. A WINDOW THAT LETS YOU INTERACT WITH THE PAST! THAT WOULD BE HIS NOVEL! He turned to his computer, and in a flurry, began to write. His hands were a blur, and occasionally stopped so that he could look out of his window. He wrote of the beast that walked by his window, a possible dinosaur that lived before him. He wrote of the war that besot his view, the rampant explosions and the ever present touch of death at any given moment. And after he reached the point of where he began to write, an errant thought birthed itself in his head.

"If the left window allows me to look into the past" he thought to the only person in his head, "then what do the other windows lead to?"

He closed the window to the past, and opened it again, the sight of pillars of stone and fire before his eyes.

"Rome," he realized, as a man with a lyre walked amongst them. "And not a very accurate one either."

He left the left curtain open, and pulled the cord for the front window. All of a sudden, the subdued hues of brown and gold met his gaze of a vast desert. There were no cacti, to his displeasure, but that was quickly squelched when a military vehicle rolled past his window.

"Heh. That was stupidly obvious. Left is the past, center is the present. Which means..."

The writer grabbed the cord for the right window, and quickly pulled it open, but the writer was not ready for what he saw. Beyond the curtain lay absolute darkness, which seemed to devour the light from the other windows. He closed the curtain, reopened it, opened it partway, but no matter what he did, the window remained blackened. He scratched his head, tilted his gaze, peered deeper and deeper into it, but nothing could be seen. So he closed the curtain to the right window, and turned towards the center, in time to see a rocket propelled grenade launch a vehicle into a spin right at his window. He scrambled to close the curtain, right as the vehicle closed in on him.

*THUNK*

"...THE HELL?!", the writer exclaimed.

He flung open the curtain, and he laughed. On the other side of the window was a crowd of people, and a drunk young woman who had lifted her top, and fallen back into the window. A party was obviously raging, with the sheer amount of bottles, cans, and red plastic cups that were littered across his view. Shaking his head, and blushing slightly, the writer closed the curtain, and began to write again. Every now and again, he would reopen the curtain (a lover's quarrel here, an Operating room surgery there, and even opening the window from the other side of a Red Light window in Amsterdam, which confused not only him, but the people watching the girl in the window itself), write what he saw, and then close the curtain again.

This continued for several hours, until thirst forced the writer to leave his lair. Pouring a cup of sludge that was this morning's coffee, he stood in his kitchen, and pondered the reason the right window remained empty. The left window provided historical events (albeit, VERY loosely inspired in some instances), and the front window provided many moments of horror, thrilling events, and incredible detail. But the right window remained as dark as it was when his day began. He pondered, puzzled and thought of all the possibilities that the future could entail, and the incredible opportunity he was given. The past is a given, the present is just a sense of voyeurism beyond what anyone has experienced to date, but the FUTURE could give only him something that all other writers and thinkers could only DREAM of before today. The dream of absolute certainty.

He rinsed the remainder of his cup, and hurried back to his lair, and personally flung open the right curtain. He stood and stared at the impossible darkness that was before him. He scratched his head, he rubbed his temples, he even scratched the back of his leg with the other foot, but he did not stop staring into that impossible void. Something HAD to be there, or else he would not be able to see what was beyond this window. He could feel the frustration of being denied possibly the GREATEST opportunity in the history of existence, and he could not stand to be left unknowing.

"SHOW ME SOMETHING!", he screamed. "You can't possibly deny me this very chance to know the future, and then turn a blind eye towards my interests! GOD DAMN YOU, I DEMAND YOU SHOW ME SOMETHING, YOU FUCKING WINDOW! I COMMAND YOU TO SHOW ME! RIGHT NOW!"

But when the window did not respond with anything at all, the writer turned and slammed his fist into his desk. He stood defeated, and he believed that he would be left wanting.

He felt a presence, both impossibly great and terrifying, and quickly turned to look out the right window. And immediately knew regret for his demand. For on the other side of the window, in deep darkness, was the glowing red iris of a giant eye, peering deeply into the writer's lair. And the writer remembered the two main things that people tend to forget about windows.

The first is that windows are not mirrors, and that if you attract the attention of anything on the other side, they can see what you are doing.

And the second is that he had left the right window wide open from the previous night.

Creepypasta: The Path Home

    There once was a boy that lived deep in the middle of the woods. He lived in a normal house in a clearing of trees, far from civilization, with his mother and father, and his little sister. Every morning, this boy would go to school along the usual path, very early in the morning. First the paved path, then take the dirt path on the left, come to the bed of flowers, take a right, follow the roses to the circle, then right at Ash tree and straight to the main road. It wasn't really that scary, an everyday routine really. It helped that the area of the forest they lived in was heavily populated with many different kinds of birds and other critters.

    One day, the boy's parents and sister grew very sick. They couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, and couldn't really do much for themselves. The boy wanted to stay home, to look after them, but his parents refused. They said he needed to go, because what would he do if they suddenly couldn't be around to help him? So the boy relented, and the next day, got up extra early so that he wouldn't miss the bus. So early, in fact, that it was still extremely dark outside.

    Now, unlike most boys, he wasn't afraid of the dark. He was very brave, indeed. If there was a scary looking beast, he would go out of his way to pet it. If there was a dark room, he'd volunteer to go first. If there was something other kids would refuse to do, he would do it himself. He was not foolish, quite the opposite. He was just willing to do something. Like this morning, when he got up when the forest was darkest, and the sky was the most barren. This was compounded by the fact that it was snowing, and the clouds wouldn't even let a sliver of light. It would be safe to assume that today would be a real test of the boy's courage, in the darkest time of the year.

    The boy dressed in his best winter clothes, dark and heavy. He put on his winter boots, thick and warm. He grabbed his dark gloves and hat, soft and comfortable. He grabbed his jacket, sturdy and dependable. He grabbed his book bag, heavy and strong, and made his way downstairs. He made himself a light breakfast, some cereal and toast, and sat down to eat, when he heard some soft coughing. Looking up, he saw his sister, red eyed and obviously feeling the sickness.

    "I'm thirsty...", she said. Being the helpful boy that he was, he went to the sink, got some water, and shooed her off to bed. After he heard her door close, he ate his breakfast, put his dishes away, and got ready to leave.

    "Let's see. Books? Check. Paper? Check. Pens and pencils? Check. Homework? Done early last night... Annnnd Optimus Prime, for good luck! If anything happens, you'll make sure I'm well taken care of! Right, Optimus?"

    The boy moved the figure, and raised his blaster as if he was rallying his fellow Autobots.

    "Autobots! Let's ROLL OUT!", the boy said, mimicking the cartoon.

    The boy swiftly donned his jacket, put on his hat and gloves, put Optimus in his pocket, grabbed his bag, and made for the door. Even through the gloves, the boy could tell how cold the doorknob was. But he knew he had to make his way to the bus stop, so he quickly opened the door, and walked out into the cold air. The chilly blast made him close his eyes, and when he looked, the outline of the light from the house looked like it was being swallowed by the darkened forest. Thankfully, the path he was meant to take was very apparent, so with purpose and resignation, began to make his way down the path to school.

    He took the path as far as he remembered, slightly dazed by the crunching snow beneath his feet, and looked up a little further. Was it just his imagination, or was there something just out of his field of view? He stopped at where he knew the dirt path began, and just stood there, looking in the darkness. Was it just him, or was there something there? It might be big, but not too broad. A deer, maybe? He wasn't sure, but for all he knew, he had to keep going to school. So, he turned left and began walking towards the flower bed.

    As the chill of the twilight sank in through his clothes, the boy trudged ahead, the snow crunching under his feet. He look ahead in the darkness, silently hoping that dawn would come quickly. He quickly made his way down the white sheet of what would be a path he took many times before.Every time he looked off to the side, he could see some formless shape darting outside his field of vision. He paid it no mind, but he was beginning to show concern for what that thing was. He was sure it was following him. As he got to the flower bed, full of many different kinds in bloom, his mind eased a little, until an errant thought went through his head.

    The woods were incredibly quiet, and for some reason, that made him concerned. But being that he was a kid, he shook the thought out of his head, and turned right, down the path lined by roses.

    The outline of the roses were still visible in this deep darkness, providing him at least a little comfort. Every couple of steps, he stopped to look at them. Twice as tall as him, he would quickly gauge to see if he would be as tall as them, someday. He loved being in the middle of the forest, with all the various plants and animals-

    He came to a complete stop when he realized it. Every time he noticed that vague shape just out of sight, there wasn't a single sound. No crunching of snow, no snapping of tree limbs, not even a sign of breath. It confused the boy to see something that he was sure was there, but didn't even take notice of what was happening around him. It was-

    His eyes caught the blur of something quickly moving itself behind the bushes. A quick shadow, which then ducked down, silent and almost imperceptible. The boy looked around, quickly shuffling his feet in a circle, staring over the tops of the bushes for a chance at a clearer look. but so denied, he simply shook his head, and made his way down to the circle opening, towards the Ashen Oak tree by the path that led to the main road, and the bus to school. As he came to the muddy circle, tinged by the snow covered paths, the boy looked at the tree. It was tall and proud, and he wondered at just how long it was there. Looking at it's branches, the boy thought of his father, sure that he was going to be as strong as both man and tree.

    As he gazed up, the pressure of a slight buzzing sensation filled his head. He brought his eyes down, and began looking warily around him. There was something there, of that he was certain. He turned around, and looked at the roses lined path, from which he came. He looked deep into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever was there. He knew that the thing that was following him was there. A high pitch whine began to course through his head, back down the path from which he came. He felt that whatever was there wanted him to come back. It wanted him to come to it. He was wanted by whatever was there. But he knew that whatever that thing was, it was not his mother or his father, or even his little sister. His mother made him promise he would go to school, so he turned away from the roses lined path, towards the Ashen Oak tree, and made his way to the main road.

    As he got further away, the buzzing pressure began to fade, and the high pitch whine eventually disappeared. The main road was becoming more visible at the other end of the path, and the boy realized that he'd have to rush in order to catch the bus to school. So, gripping his prized figurine in his pocket, he ran towards the pickup spot. The crunching of the underfoot snow quickly gave way to the clomping of cold mud, as daybreak broke, and the road showed itself more. The boy heard the roar of the school bus make it's way to him, and he turned to look down the path once more. The path he came from was still as dark as ever, as if it wanted to remain hidden. He hoped that he wouldn't have to walk down it again while it was dark, so he asked Optimus to help him get him before nightfall, and climbed onto the bus, taking the hour and a half journey to school, praying that his family would be alright when he got home.

    He spent the entire time at school in somewhat of a daze. The darkness, coupled with the thing that laid in those woods, drove the curiosity within him. He had only one thing on his mind: making sure his family was alright. He spent recess indoors, ignoring his friend's attempts of getting him to join in a new game called "Dead Man, Thin Man". Apparently, it was a variation on Hide and Seek mixed with Marco Polo, where instead of the caller being blind, the players would keep their eyes closed, while the "Thin Man" could stalk them. Whoever was left at the end of the game (in this case, recess) were the winners. When he asked, his friends couldn't tell him where they got the idea, they just thought it was something different and possibly fun.

    When they ran off, the boy walked to the office, and asked to make a call home. The attendant asked if he was ill, but the boy said he wanted to call home and make sure his family was okay. A slightly odd request, but not too strange a reason, so the attendant dialed the number and handed the boy the phone. When he put the phone to his ear, the buzzing pressure came to him again, and the high pitch whine coursed through his head. With each ring, the pressure and sound kept building, until both were quickly cut short when the answering machine picked up. Letting them know that he was just checking in, the boy said he loved them, and began to hang up, when he heard the click of the receiver. The boy quickly put the phone to his ear, ignoring the buzzing and the high pitch whine loudly going through his head, and asked for who was there. Mom, dad, his sister? He repeatedly asked the other end if they were alright, but all he received was silence. Not even the sound of someone breathing. He asked question after question, receiving no response at all from the person on the phone. It was only through the blaring of the school bell that he had to go, so he told whoever was there that they should get some rest, and that he would be home before dark.

    The rest of the school day was a blur, the boy so focused on his family. He didn't talk to his friends, he almost forgot to turn in his homework, and he didn't even hear what he was supposed to do over the weekend. All he knew was that he had to get home. The blaring of the school bell told him that he could now leave, and he wasted no opportunity. He ran past his waiting friends, who wanted to ask him something, and he scrambled to ge to the buses as quickly as possible. As he ran outside, there was a teacher asking for everyone's attention. Apparently, there was some issues with the buses, so the students would be getting home a little later than usual. Everyone's parents were called, they were told, so they wouldn't have to worry. But that's what the boy did. Cause the heavy clouds overhead let him know that when he got home, it would be darker than what he prayed for.

    A little under an hour later, the buses finally arrived. The boy was the first one on, and he knew that time was of the essence, because his was the last stop on the entire bus route. He sat nervously in his seat, slowly waiting for each other student to be dropped off. The long trip wore on him, the only companion he acknowledged was the figurine in his hands. The other kids passed the time like they do, talking to each other, playing games, reading, but the boy kept himself hunched over, staring at the Optimus Prime toy. Under his breath, the boy asked Optimus to make sure they were okay. He would be getting home soon, he stated, and he asked Optimus to make sure his fellow Autobots protected his family. The boy fidgeted with the toy, as one by one, every passenger was dropped off, until he was all that was left.

    He noticed that the bus began to slow down, and looking up, saw the pathway to his house. When the bus stopped, he thanked the driver, and stepped out into the fresh and falling snow. As the bus drove off, a biting wind followed closely behind, and the boy turned his collar to the cold. His eyes stung, and through the forming tears, looked down the path. His endeavor was covered, and the woods were deeply shaded. The boy gripped Optimus tightly, and quickly began down the path. The buzzing sensation met him with his first step, and the high pitch whine built with every bit of progress towards the circle. The boy bared down, quickly walking, and shortly made his way towards the roses lined path. But something caught his attention, and he turned towards the proud Ashen Oak tree.

    There, in the lower branches, hung his father, skewered in a mockery of a broken toy. His arms splayed out, one pierced completely through the wrist, turned up and out. His eyes were empty, like someone had plucked them out entirely. His jaw hung slack, with a smattering of blood and vomit surrounding his mouth, and running down his soiled clothes. His head was turned directly towards the boy, looking directly at him if not for the lack of eyes. The boy stood transfixed, in complete and utter shock. He was too far up for him to reach, so all he could do was stare at him, dangling lifeless and inert.

    The boy noticed that the light was beginning to fade sooner than he thought, and knew he had to rush home. So he turned towards the roses lined path, and received another shock from the opening. The bushes were all dead, withered and quickly decaying, and in the middle of the path, he knew he saw the outline of his mother. He called out to her, quickly running down the path. He didn't care that the roses were somehow dead. He just wanted to tell his mother about what he found, and to tell her he was happy to be home. But with every word, and every crunching footfall, he didn't notice his mother's refusal to turn around. It wasn't until he came close enough to see the crimson ground beneath her that he knew something had happened to her as well.

    Running around her, the boy spun to see what had happened to his mother. There instead of eyes, were two roses, skewered through, and inside her mouth was a single rose, framed by blood on the side of her face. Her hands were folded with loving care, wrapped in the thorny growth that grew around her. The boy screamed, and tried to push her down. But even through gloves and her clothing, the boy felt the thorns pricking him, her body gently rocked back and unwilling to fall over. The boys eyes began to fill with tears, as he now knew both his mother and father were killed by something or someone that may still be there. He fell to his knees, and openly sobbed, calling for his parents that could no longer hear him. He gripped his Optimus figure tightly, almost as if he was praying for someone to help him. That's when he felt the insane pressure, returning with the high pitch whine in a fervor that was telling him to keep going.

    The boy turned towards the flower bed, hesitant to make the rest of the way home, but something urged him. Sister, it seemed to say. You've yet to see your sister. The boy wiped his eyes, stood up, and almost in a daze, stumble down the pathway towards the flower bed. He didn't notice the lack of birds or beasts, or that the snow was falling more steadily, and the woods were growing darker still. His feet shuffled, and the sound of snow underfoot filled the forest. The boy looked as if he was in a weary vigil, his toy clutched tightly in his hands, walking towards the flower bed still in bloom. His breath was ragged and heavy, as he bundled himself tightly to fight the chill. The boy was deep in shock by the time he reached the flowers.

    The flowers were all in bloom, surrounding his sister, laying peacefully. Her hands were folded on her chest, covering a slightly gaping wound where her heart would be. Her eyelids were closed, sunken in and concave. The boy knew that her eyes were gone. Whatever this thing was, it wanted him to see what they did not. He began to shake uncontrollably, partly from the cold, but mostly from whatever thing could do this. The whine pierced his head, as he fell to his knees and proceeded to wildly throw up. He retched loudly, crying with each heave. He didn't care that the forest was becoming darker, or that he was on his hands and knees in the freezing cold. He didn't want to do anything but lay down, close his eyes, and wake up in his bed, with his family surrounding him.

    "Come," whatever lay beyond urged him. "Come home," it seemed to say. "You're wanted at home. You're SAFE at home. The light is failing, and it's time to come home..."

    The boy rose to his feet, and looked at the sky. Indeed, the light was fading, and nightfall would be here. The boy took a step towards the paved path, but stopped and turned around. He looked at his sister's body, laying so peacefully, and knew that he couldn't leave her behind alone. So, with the buzzing pressure at dizzying strength, and the piercing whine at it's most painful, he bent down, and on her chest, placed his Optimus figure. Then, his vision distorting, and with unsteady steps, he walked down the dirt path towards home.

    The distant crunching of his boots never caught his ears once. Between the buzzing and the high pitched whine, the only thought that went through his head was "Home". Bloody wetness began to stream down his face, gushing from spots that would allow it to flow. He slightly stumbled as he reached the paved path, frozen underneath the steadily growing snow. He turned towards his house, staring at the lit front yard. Home was before him. A dream, he thought. This is all a dream. As the sky faded darker, and the light from the porch seemed to burn itself into the darkness. The boy weakly began to laugh to himself.

    "Home. I'm home."

    The door to the garage came to life, and the boy lazily stared at it began to lift itself. He saw the feet of three figures, which became more apparent as to who they were as the garage opened itself. The gaping chest wound of his sister, her hands clutching the Optimus Prime figure, showed itself. His mother, wrapped in thorns, stood straight and unyielding next to her. His father, limp and swaying slightly, was upright next to them. But it wasn't until his parents faces were revealed that he saw someone else standing behind them. He was big, but not broad. Thin, like something was stretched too far, and fought to retain shape. He was dressed in dark clothes, with long limbs, and with four tentacles that seemed to absorb the light around the,. When his face was revealed, the boy couldn't react to the face that wasn't there. Its' featureless, grey skinned face stood born above his parents, its' head tilted slightly, as if it was just over the height for the top of the garage itself.

    "I'm home..." the boy exalted.

    Three voices met his, sounding like his mother, father, and sister. But he saw that their mouths did not move, and all were cold and unfeeling, as if a mockery of emotion.


    "Welcome home."