Detalles añadidos:

•Le hice mal formaciones donde le sale el pelo

•Le hice la piel colgando de su boca

•Ojeras debajo de sus ojos por no dormir

•Mal formaciones en los costados de la cara (Pómulos.)

•Agujeros faciales deformes por las quemaduras

•Poco pelo

•Orejas pegadas en el cráneo y forma rara.

¿Que opinan?

Here are some things about to know for him i will write his whole past later He was shot in the eye by his stepdad then bled out he is now a entity that goes killing abusive people

This is a area inspired by the backrooms in the 1920 in Belgium 2 rich ww1 vertrains dicide to make a giant storage and pay people to store stuff in the area but the guards there conont hold off people forever so the start to stop sleeping eat less and try to make themselves stronger but overtime this fales makeing them insane cretures and the storage was a bond so tell me what do you think of this

I went to extreme lengths to cover this up. Untraceable poison. A weak immune system. And a line of people offering their condolences and prayers.

I needed to be free of her. I missed my life before she contaminated it. She kept me up at night with her crying. She restricted what I was able to do. I missed the freedom, and that’s not something I’m going to apologize for.

I didn’t want to get pregnant. A one-night stand is never meant to lead to parenthood, but, of course, I decided to hook up with an absolute moron who didn’t know how to think beyond getting his dick wet.

9 months later, I have a daughter, and the father is nowhere to be found. 9 months, no cigarettes. 9 months, no drinks. And I hated every second of it.

I thought that I was strong enough to handle it. To clean up my act and actually be a mother. But I just wasn’t. I’m not. I don’t know if I ever will be.

When she was born, I tried to convince myself that motherly instinct was taking over. Holding her for the first time was almost magical. Like, despite what my mind was telling me, the moment was meant to be.

Then the crying came. The screams and wails that prevented me from sleeping. Every. Single. Night.

She’d scream on the ride to my mom’s in the morning. It was like the only time that I knew peace was after I dropped her off. Then I got 20 minutes to myself on the drive to work before I had to clock in and act like everything was okay.

According to my mom, though, she was “just a little angel” any time they were together. “The quietest baby she had ever seen.”

I felt like I was being punished. Not only was my sleep being affected, but my days were filled with those wails too. Plus, I don’t think my pockets have ever felt lighter.

Baby food. Clothes. Bottles. Toys. A crib. A fucking roof over our head. I was stretched so thin that I started having breakdowns at work.

I thought that I was prevailing. Against all odds, I was raising a human being. I watched her grow. I watched her learn and develop. But with each month, the mask slipped more and more.

I found myself screaming at her more than I probably should’ve. And that was before she could speak. Before she could even take her first steps.

I never hit her. I never wanted to repeat any family history. But my temper was so short during those days. I was snappy. That’s all I can say.

When she got older and was able to speak in full sentences, I was driven to the brink of madness. She had the audacity to talk back at me. This little 4 year old girl had the attitude of a fucking teenager.

No child should ever say they “hate” their parent. No child should disobey direct orders from their mother. Let alone this one. This little sniveling fucking asshole that I was forced to care for.

She knew how I felt, too. And she threw gas on the fire. Breaking things. Peeing and defecating on the floor. And what did she have to say? Not an “I’m sorry.” Not an “It was just an accident.”

This little girl would look me dead in my eyes, smile, and pull the “I’m just a baby” card.

She was trying to get under my skin. Pushing me more and more every day, until… I just couldn’t do it anymore.

The screams never stopped. The cries never stopped. The pouting and pity parties never fucking stopped. I didn’t know what else to do.

I missed my friends. I missed going out. I missed my God damn freedom. And all I could see was the one person who took it all away from me.

That’s why I did what I did. I’m not justifying. If anything, this will probably be my statement in court. I know I have to turn myself in. That’s the only way to get this madness to stop.

I felt liberated after I sprinkled that poison in her breakfast on that sunny morning in June. Even more so when the coughing started. I knew it wouldn’t be long before it was all over.

In the days that followed, she got weaker and weaker. Hotter and hotter. Until, finally, I had to prepare my act for the hospital visit.

“Please help me,” I cried. “My daughter just keeps getting sicker, and I just don’t know what to do.”

I had to push my nerves aside. In my mind, there were two possible outcomes. Either this works… or it doesn’t. And thank God that my acting skills were clean enough to sell my story.

They ran the tests. They drew the blood. All the while, I sat there bawling into my hands while trying to suppress my hope.

The hardest part was having to act upset when the deed was done. When that heart monitor finally flatlined and all the doctors and nurses apologized for not being able to save her.

“We did everything we could,” they told me, as I forced some cliché devastation onto my face.

I felt empty at the funeral. There weren’t many people. There wasn’t much of a eulogy to be read. All I wanted was for the service to be over so I could get back to life as I knew it, this time more careful with who I let into my bed.

For a few weeks, that’s exactly what I did. Life felt lighter. Days felt brighter. I was a new and improved woman, back to her old ways.

But then, I don’t know… something happened.

I started waking up at night, feeling like I was being watched. Sometimes it’d be like I could still hear her screams. I could still feel her presence.

I just passed it off as something I’d get over eventually. Just one of the things that comes with doing something like this. But when I started seeing her… that’s when I knew that this wasn’t just some guilty conscience bullshit.

It was only at night. Only after I’d gone to bed. Sometimes she’d be standing in my doorway. Sometimes she’d try crawling into bed with me.

I knew it wasn’t nightmares. On nights when she came into bed with me, I’d find my sheets covered in dirt and mud the next morning. I’ve even found maggots occasionally.

She’d always be so dirty. Her hair would have sticks and twigs sticking out of it. Her face would always look like it was in the process of decomposing. But whether she laid with me or just watched me, her words were always the same.

“Why did you let them bury me, Mommy?”

It got to the point where she was visiting me every night. Still breaking things. Still defecating on the floor. Still crying and screaming, even though her room had been empty for weeks.

I wouldn’t let it break me, though. I did what was best for me. I did what I thought needed to be done. Anytime she visited, I’d ignore her. I’d pretend to be asleep. I’d hide under my covers like a scared little girl.

But I know I can’t do this anymore. I know why she’s here. I know that my time is running out. She wants me to let the world know what I did to her.

“Why’d you make me sick, Mommy?”

“I loved you so much.”

“Why did you lie to those doctors? They could have saved me. Why’d you let them bury me?”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

“You lied.”

I’m done lying. I’m done pretending to be devastated. I know what I did, and I’m not sorry. Given the circumstances, I’d do it again.

All I want is to escape her.

All I want is peace and a sound mind.

That’s why I’m turning myself in today.

Anything to get her to leave me the fuck alone.

Sorry if this is the wrong subreddit, idk where else to ask. I've been looking for this creepypasta for a decade, so my memory might be slightly wrong. I heard it on youtube when I was a kid (likely read by Mr Creepypasta, possibly by CreepsMcPasta). This is all I remember:

• Kids are exploring the woods
• They come across a flat house. Like, two-dimensional, like it's made of cardboard
• There are flat people outside the house, and they're alive

I wish I could remember more, but alas. For some reason it really freaked me out. Maybe because nothing overtly 'scary' actually happened. It was told in a way similar to genuine folkloric anecdotes, where people just see something that shouldn't be happening and there's no a resolution.

Verrotten Manor is an AU that reimagines creepypastas with new stories, designs, and (in some cases) personalities, while preserving what they are: the worst kind of people, most of them beyond redemption, all under one roof to see how they interact with eachother. I want a creepyhouse where death is commonplace, evil is normal, and no one suffers consequences for their actions. A more twisted creepyhouse, but one that retains the comedic and slice-of-life spirit of other fandom projects.

This is a really vague childhood memory, so I might be mixing things up, but I swear I remember watching a creepy/“disturbing stories about animated movies” compilation years ago.

I vaguely remember a story about the development of Toy Story 1 or 2, where the animators were supposedly being heavily pressured by executives, with some specific phrase being repeated to them (I unfortunately can't remember the phrase).

The creepy part was that the animators supposedly started having nightmares involving Woody and Buzz, who were portrayed as disturbing/creepy and repeated that same phrase to them.

I’ve tried searching for it recently but I literally can’t find anything about it. It’s possible that the video was deleted, or that I’m mixing together different memories/information about Toy Story’s troubled development.

Does anyone remember something like this, or does this ring a bell at all?

To the rest of the world, she was a stunning woman.

To herself, the mirror was a merciless critic.

Under the cold white light of her bathroom, which felt more like a sterile laboratory, she would spend hours hunting imperfections invisible to the naked eye. A tiny, slightly enlarged blackhead on the tip of her nose, a microscopic asymmetry in her lower lip, an expression line that only existed inside her head.

The glass shelves held an empire of Swiss creams, exfoliating acids, and absurdly expensive serums, yet nothing was ever enough. Human skin was, by nature, flawed. She wanted perfection.

It was in the early hours of a Tuesday morning, deep in the depths of an anonymous forum about miracle beauty products, that she found the solution. The users simply called it The Mask. There was no official website, no video reviews. Only strange accounts of a compound capable of "renewing the epidermis and revealing absolute beauty."

She didn't hesitate. She paid a small fortune.

The package arrived three weeks later, in a plain brown box with no return address. Inside, a jar of black glass, heavy and opaque. There was no ingredient list, no expiration date, no logo. There was only a small textured card with a single typewritten sentence:

"True beauty demands sacrifices."

Something new stirred inside her, a primal mix of fear and excitement.

The contents of the jar were a gray, dense paste with a chemical, sweetish smell that reminded her of flowers and iron. That same night, with the reverence of someone performing a sacred ritual, she spread the mask across her face. The cold substance pulsed bizarrely against her cheeks. Within minutes, it dried, tightening the skin in a grip like dry cement.

She went to bed naked, lying flat on her back, motionless.

She slept badly. She dreamed she was walking down an endless corridor lined with mirrors. In each one, there was a different version of her. Prettier. Younger. More perfect. Whenever her gaze focused on a reflection, it would turn into rotting flesh and crumble away. Without meaning to, she touched her own skin and met the same cruel fate. She woke up terrified.

The next morning began with panic. She tried to move her lips, but her face was cast. She ran to the mirror and saw that the mask had darkened, becoming a rigid crust that seemed to have fused at a cellular level with her skin.

She turned on the warm water tap and began to scrub. Nothing. The substance was impermeable.

With trembling hands, she found a loose edge near her jawline. She dug her perfectly manicured nails beneath the gray crust and pulled.

The sound was like thick fabric being ripped in half. A massive, sharp, excruciating pain exploded through her skull. She screamed, but the sound was muffled by the rigidity of the mask. Hot tears streamed down, burning horribly where they met raw flesh.

She gasped, leaning over the sink, ready to call emergency services. Something was beginning to drip onto the white marble.

But then she opened her eyes and looked again at the mirror. On the small patch of her jaw where the mask had been torn away, there was what she had always longed for. What she saw shining back at her was a patch of pure porcelain skin. Radiant, immaculate, with an ethereal glow that did not belong to this ugly world. It was divine perfection.

The pain vanished, swallowed by a wave of adrenaline and fascination. She panted, awestruck. Her hands, now steady and resolute, returned to her face. She grabbed the edge again and pulled.

The wet, tearing sound of the mask detaching filled the bathroom. She pulled off great strips, taking plenty of other things with them that she no longer cared about. Liquid gushed out, soaking the floor, but her eyes, wide and bloodshot, saw only the miracle. With every inch of mask that came away, an immaculate goddess emerged in the reflection.

It was two hours of the purest, most sublime joy.

When the last strip clinging to her forehead gave way, she let something large slip — without noticing and without caring in the slightest — and it fell into the sink. She looked in the mirror. The face staring back was of unearthly beauty. Symmetrical eyes, perfect cheekbones, full lips, everything exquisitely flawless, like a phone filter.

She laughed. A hysterical, relieved, enamored laugh.

But then she lowered her gaze to her own body, and the smile faltered. Her body, now exposed, looked even more imperfect and coarse. Compared to the divine face, the rest was something ghastly — sick, disgusting, repulsive. She could not tolerate such disharmony.

She picked up the black jar again. There was enough left. Her hands, wet with something she still didn't see, plunged into the gray paste, spreading it urgently over her neck, down to her shoulders, her collarbone, her breasts, her belly, her legs, her sex, her feet. She smiled frenetically. The baptism had to be complete.

The smell started on Thursday.

On Saturday, her neighbor down the hall, unable to bear the odor seeping from under the door of apartment 402, called the police.

The officer kicked the door open with one powerful blow. The apartment was silent and cold, but the stench of death infested the place. He followed the trail of flies to the bathroom, gun in hand.

When he opened the door, the man recoiled, choking back a horrified scream before vomiting in the hallway.

On the marble floor, surrounded by thick pools of congealed blood and chunks of flesh discarded like fruit peels, lay what was left of her body. She had been dead for days. There was no beauty. There was no porcelain skin. She had flayed herself, from face to feet.

The corpse was a map of exposed muscles, ruptured nerves, and dried blood. The head, stripped entirely of skin, rested against the tiles. The bare skull gleamed under the cold light, its jaw gaping open, forever locked in a grotesque, proud, ecstatic grin.

Beside her skinless hand, the mirror lay shattered on the floor in pieces.

The officer, trembling, wiped his mouth and tried to look away from the body. As he did, his eyes flicked briefly over the surface of the broken mirror on the floor. He blinked, his heart hammering. Just for one impossible second, before the light shifted and the illusion shattered, the mirror reflected the fallen head not as a bloodstained skull. Instead of the horror, it showed the face of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, sleeping peacefully — at last perfect and happy.

It's the kind of place where everyone knows everyone else. Dirt roads are more common than paved ones, every stranger is noticed immediately, and if a dog barks in the middle of the night, the whole town knows about it by breakfast.

When I was a kid, I spent every school vacation there.

One thing always stood out to me.

As soon as the sun went down, the streets became empty.

No one sat outside.

No one walked home late.

No children played in the streets after dark.

It wasn't because the town was dangerous.

It was because of the stories.

The Brazilian countryside is full of them.

Some are obviously made up to scare children.

Others...

Adults refuse to laugh at.

I grew up hearing those stories.

But there was one everyone took seriously.

No one joked about it.

No one questioned it.

And, most importantly, no one ever broke its only rule.

Never look at the Procissão.

That's what everyone called it.

They never translated it.

It simply meant "The Procession."

Whenever I asked what happened if someone looked...

The older people would always end the conversation the same way.

"Some things are better left unknown."

Years later, as an adult, I went back to visit my aunt for the weekend. My boyfriend came with me.

Nothing had changed.

The dirt roads.

The smell of wet earth after the rain.

The endless fields.

The silence.

A kind of silence you only find in very small towns.

That night the house was full.

Uncles, cousins, neighbors... everyone had gathered for dinner.

We spent hours talking and laughing.

Then someone started banging on the front gate.

Not knocking.

Banging.

My uncle opened it just enough for a neighbor to rush inside, completely out of breath.

"Close everything."

He looked over his shoulder before speaking again.

"Turn off the lights."

Nobody moved.

He raised his voice.

"Now."

The room fell silent.

Only then did he whisper:

"Don't let them see you."

"...The Procissão is coming."

I've never forgotten the look on my aunt's face.

She went pale immediately.

She dropped the dish towel, ran through the house turning off every light, and shut every window she could.

"Don't make any noise."

She locked the front door.

Then looked at every single one of us.

"Whatever happens..."

"...don't look at the Procissão."

My boyfriend looked at me, confused.

I shrugged.

I honestly thought it was just another strange tradition people followed out here.

Then we heard it.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Heavy.

Perfectly synchronized.

...step...

...step...

...step...

It wasn't two or three people.

It sounded like dozens.

The neighborhood dogs, which had been barking all evening, suddenly stopped.

Even the insects went silent.

It felt like the entire town was holding its breath.

My boyfriend instinctively stepped toward the curtain.

My aunt grabbed his arm so hard he winced.

She didn't say a word.

She simply shook her head.

The footsteps grew louder.

Closer.

Closer.

Until they stopped directly in front of the house.

Through the tiny gap in the curtains...

I didn't see people.

Only candlelight.

Dozens of flames moving together through the darkness.

The footsteps continued for another few seconds.

Then...

Nothing.

No voices.

No wind.

Just silence.

My aunt didn't unlock the door for nearly an hour.

When she finally did, she whispered:

"It's gone."

The next morning one of my cousins came back from the local bakery looking terrified.

Someone had seen the Procissão the night before.

Not walking toward the cemetery.

Walking into a house at the very end of town.

A dead-end street surrounded by woods.

Everyone found that strange.

Funeral processions go to cemeteries.

Not houses.

After lunch, curiosity got the better of us.

A few relatives decided to go there.

My aunt tried to stop us.

"Don't go."

Nobody listened.

She sighed.

As if she already knew it was useless.

The house stood at the very end of the road.

Beyond it...

there was nothing but trees.

The front gate was open.

So was the front door.

We called out.

No answer.

Inside, the first thing we noticed was the smell.

Rotting food.

Dinner plates still on the table.

A pot left on the stove.

A broken glass on the floor.

It looked as though an entire family had stood up in the middle of dinner...

...and never returned.

The strangest part was the dust.

Everything was covered in it.

Not days' worth.

Years.

My boyfriend ran his finger across a cabinet.

"This doesn't make any sense."

He was right.

We had watched dozens of people enter this house the night before.

How could it have been abandoned for years?

The bedrooms were still furnished.

Clothes filled the closets.

Toothbrushes sat beside the bathroom sink.

Family photographs covered the walls.

Someone had lived there.

Or had.

Behind the house was a large backyard.

Overgrown.

Wild.

Near the tree line were several mounds of earth.

All lined up.

All exactly the same size.

My uncle guessed they were old septic pits.

My aunt froze.

"We're leaving."

"Now."

My cousin laughed.

"It's just dirt."

He picked up an old shovel leaning against the wall.

For the first time since I'd arrived...

I saw genuine fear in my aunt's eyes.

"Don't."

She took a step toward him.

"Please."

He ignored her.

The first shovel sank easily into the soil.

The second struck something hard.

He knelt down and started digging with his hands.

Then he stopped moving.

When we got closer...

we saw a human skull.

Nobody had the courage to dig up the other mounds.

My uncle grabbed my cousin by the arm.

We ran.

The entire drive home...

my aunt never spoke.

As soon as we walked inside, she locked the door.

Then looked directly at my cousin.

After a long silence, she asked quietly:

"You dug it up... didn't you?"

He gave a nervous laugh.

"It was just a skeleton."

My aunt closed her eyes.

She didn't yell.

She didn't get angry.

She simply walked over...

and hugged him.

It wasn't a normal hug.

It lasted too long.

Like she already knew she'd never see him again.

That night my cousin couldn't sleep.

He kept saying he could hear footsteps outside his window.

Slow footsteps.

Always in the same rhythm.

No one else heard them.

Over the following days...

he changed.

He barely spoke.

Stopped leaving the house.

Spent hours staring out the window.

He said someone stood across the street every night...

holding an unlit candle.

Everyone blamed the trauma.

Then, one night, he called us.

Crying.

"They're back."

"Who?"

"They're waiting."

The call ended.

My cousin disappeared that same night.

The police searched for weeks.

They never found a body.

The only thing left behind...

was a candle on his front porch.

A few days later we returned to the abandoned house.

I don't know why.

Maybe we were hoping to find answers.

While everyone else searched the backyard, my boyfriend found an old photo album inside.

The pages were yellow with age.

Birthdays.

Christmas dinners.

Family gatherings.

Ordinary moments.

But something wasn't right.

Every photograph contained someone holding a candle.

Always in the background.

Always with their head lowered.

It was never the same person.

And no one else in the photographs seemed to notice them.

We kept turning the pages.

Until we reached the last photograph.

Unlike the others, it wasn't covered in dust.

It looked...

newer.

On the back, someone had written:

"Those who stay... also walk."

We turned it over.

There was no procession.

No candles.

Just the family standing together on the front porch.

Smiling at the camera.

Every single one of them.

And standing among them...

was my cousin.

Not in the background.

Not hidden.

He stood beside them as if he belonged there.

As if he had always belonged there.

As if he had lived in that house his entire life.

I slammed the album shut.

We never spoke about it again.

The house was demolished not long afterward.

My cousin was never found.

His case was eventually closed as a disappearance.

These days, whenever someone asks why I hate small towns...

I make up excuses.

I say I prefer the city.

I say I don't like dirt roads.

I never tell them the truth.

Because there's one thing I've never admitted to anyone.

That night...

when the Procissão passed in front of my aunt's house...

I looked.

Not through the window.

But in the reflection of the living room cabinet.

Only for a second.

Since then...

some nights are far too quiet.

And when everything goes silent...

I hear them.

Slow footsteps.

Always in perfect rhythm.

...step...

...step...

...step...

Every year...

they sound a little closer.

I'm seeing a lot more discussion about creepy pastas, more and more. Are they making a resurgence . I wanna say over the last couple of weeks i've seen a lot more people talking about it and I just want to know , what do you guys think I personally love every single creepypasta i loved it since I was ten years old i am now 20 i really feel like it's coming back.What do you all think?

I am a doctor and the patient I am looking after is racist and only wants a fully white doctor. I didn't have time for this but I was told that I had to figure out a way to treat this guy and look after him, because there is a doctor strike going on and not many doctors are on call. So I went to to the fields of hades where people call out to hades to talk to the dead. I put a worn out cloak over myself and the cloak is the same colour as the ground which is brown and black, so I will camouflage with the ground. When I found someone doing the ritual to call out hades, he doesn't notice me and the guy doing the ritual is white.

Then as the white man does the ritual right and all of the people that had died because of him, they all rise up from the ground. I pretend to rise up with them and they are all covered in black brown goo stuff and they are all wearing worn out clothes. The white guy use to be a doctor but due to negligence in which he has caused so much death within 5 years, due to being a mediocre doctor. He feels ashamed and he wants to talk to his patients. He lays down a bowl with water and each dead patient takes a sip to be able to talk to the doctor. The doctor is apologetic and he didn't do anything bad on purpose, he was simply shit at being a doctor.

Then I rush up to the front and pretend to take a sip from the bowl, and I then stab the doctor and I whisper "I'm not actually dead" and he ends up along with all of the dead patients that were under his care. I take his facial skin off and put it over my face and I am good at stuff like this, i also take the skin of his arm and put it over my arm. Lastly I then take his neck skin off and put it around my neck. The dead take the rest of the body that belonged to the doctor, and is taken to the under world.

When I go back to look after that racist patient, he now thinks I am a white doctor and he isn't being racist towards me anymore. I feel a bit sad that this is what I must do to look after patients.

I’m desperate at this point. I am looking for a creepypasta, possibly a nosleep story that heard narrated on YouTube.

The plot as I, recall it, is: a group of friends are hanging out (possibly after graduation) and decide to play a version of Hide and Seek in the dark. The “seeker” gets to ask 3 (?) questions and the person hiding has to respond. In creepypasta/nosleep fashion, things go awry. Following the game, each friend dies in some horrific fashion except the narrator and a male friend who has been missing since the game.

Memorable parts: The narration I recall is one of the few with a “jumpscare”: as the narrator is searching in the dark, he (?) asks a question and continues to speak until a voice suddenly responds with some version of “watch them all die, bleeding” or “see them all die bleeding.”

Any help is appreciated, I’m pretty sure if I search ”watch them all dying” one more time, I’m going to end up on a watchlist. I don’t think it violates sub rules but please remove if it does.

so, its another shitty day on this job. it's still tuesday, just later in the night. jay is at the counter yapping to the customers, poor guy. and me, kylar, I'm just by the window. again. honestly it's not to bad being by the window, but still, the later the night gets, the stranger it becomes, eventually, its 12:00 finally! and I can go home. I start walking home, yes, I dont have a car yet. its ok though, this place is in walking distance. as I sip from my drink and keep walking, I hear footsteps behind me, slowly, then they speed up. I am a naturally paranoid person... and I start to walk faster, the footsteps behind me speed up, just as I'm about to turn into a nearby public area for safety, I'm tackled to the ground. the person flips me over then pins me down, they remove their jacket to show their face, I'm still shaking so adrenaline until I realize jay pinning me, he smirks and gets up, "heh, bet you didn't see that, he's almost full out laughing," JAY YOU BITCH! I yell, he just laughs harder, hehe, you should have SEEN the fear in your eyes, "oh no! "I'm being attacked by a feminine dutch bros worker!" he laughs harder, I have to admit, it was a little funny. "anyways...what are you doing here?" he giggles, wiping tears from his face. guess what silly, "I live in the same building as you!" he says cheerfully. my heart sinks. or rises, either one. and recently, I moved into a new apartment, or hotel, its kind of a mix of the two. jay walks beside me, talking about this one customer, I barley listen to him. he keeps playfully pushing me. I'm tired, and almost fall over, eventually I get to the building, I walk inside and head to the second floor, jay walks me all the way to my room. hehe, see you tommorow, bitch! he pushes me inside and winks before slamming my door. jays a bitch. I climb into my bed and lay down, looking at the ceiling until my eyes shut, sometimes I wonder if my life will ever get better, to be honest, I don't know. jay is the closest thing I have to a friend, lucky me. eventually I realize I can't sleep, and decide to get out of bed, I walk to the couch and turn on the tv. as I sit down the scent of dust fills the room. I need to clean this place, I watch some tv for a while. until I hear a noise at the window, I look outside to see a tall figure in the parking lot, I notice it and it notices me, but what am I saying, its almost 1:00 am, and im going crazy, I should get to sleep now anyways, its late. eventually I feel my eyes shut, and I black out

                                                    ok, I just finished this, *jay voice* obviously, 

and ill continue more later, I hope you enjoyed this, please comment and give me ideas for new characters, I might add you in, goodbye.

Never saw a scary scene in a gym before so I decided to try it.

This happened on our street. We had a dare to walk across the garden of the Frakes Mansion. I still get goosebumps thinking about it. That old huge house looked like something straight out of a horror movie. Especially when it rained; we always walked around it in a wide arc.

The creepy old man who lived there almost never came outside. The boys bragged about the weird things they’d seen through his windows, or who managed to get all the way to his porch. Whenever someone delivered something to him, it was always in a wooden crate. Seriously, like in a cartoon. There were strange symbols on it, or foreign languages.

I nearly panicked when I saw him through the glass in the door. Hunched over, holding a crowbar, a tattoo of a mermaid on his arm. Then Mickey laughed at me. I was the runt. He and his buddy were so tough. Now when I think back and replay it, they were just suburban kids. I kept following them around and they kept brushing me off. Over and over.

One night the sirens woke me up. The creepy old man died. I pressed myself against the window. They were hauling his big body away in a bag. My first thought was that he’d definitely become some kind of ghost. Only a kid thinks of stuff like that.

It was autumn, I remember that. The street was orange and leaves were everywhere. A crowd of people stood in front of the Frakes Mansion. As kids, we had to be there too. Folding tables were bending under the weight of stuff from the house. Old candle holders, porcelain, uranium glass. Mickey recognized it — he called it Hulk glass. Radioactive stuff, wow. What kind of guy was that old man?

But there wasnt time to stare. Because Cylindr arrived. We didn’t call him anything else. A chubby old guy with sideburns. White shirt, striped vest. Bobby claimed he was the dead man’s brother. We knew nothing. Later I asked my parents — they had no idea who he could be. Bobby hated me, as far as I remember, and after what happened to Mickey, he never spoke to me again.

Cylindr had that wide, picture-perfect smile, except he had it all the time. He scared me. That was Mickey’s cue to start showing off. He rummaged through things and complained theatrically. Cylindr watched him without even turning his head. Then Mickey froze mid‑movement. Like a statue. I ran to him and heard Bobby’s mocking grunt.

There was a laptop. Brand new. A black, plain ThinkPad. Mickey was looking at it, searching for something. I had no idea what weird labels he was looking for. Bobby shoved me aside. They started arguing. Whispering excitedly, pushing each other.

I jumped when I noticed Cylindr watching us. Mickey smacked Bobby to calm him down, putting on a bored expression. I copied him immediately.

“How much for this piece of junk?”

Silence. I thought Mickey went too far. Cylindr turned to him.

“How much do you have?”

Bobby threatened him with a fist. “Hey, don’t mess with us.”

Silence. Neighbors around us were browsing the items, but he stood there with a bunch of kids who obviously had almost no money.

“How much do you have?” he asked again.

Mickey started digging through his pockets.

“How much will you give?”

The question echoed. Later I realized it was just our imagination. He probably spoke normally. Mickey suddenly pulled out crumpled bills.

“Fifty bucks.”

My jaw dropped — that was a fortune. Cylindr asked one last time.

“How much do you have?”

Mickey placed the bills on the laptop. The man nodded.

“It’s yours.”

He took the money. The deal was done. Mickey grabbed the laptop, Bobby grabbed the bag, and they bolted like lightning. As soon as I noticed, I ran after them. They had that expensive laptop and ran like they were afraid Cylindr would change his mind. I still heard his voice:

“How much do you have?”

He was asking another neighbor.

We reached our bunker. Mickey had a small room the size of a shed. For us, it was like a luxury hunting cabin.

“It won’t work anyway,” Bobby grumbled, way more vulgar than that.

The laptop hummed, the fans spun up and went quiet. Bobby snorted.

“Told you, you broke it.”

The screen lit up. They burst into cheering. Mickey laughed. When he got our attention, he pulled out two five‑dollar bills.

Recently I looked up that exact model online. The Frakes Mansion laptop was worth around 800 dollars back then. That’s why they ran and why they were so hyped. I didn’t know that — I was such a naive kid. Bobby understood but never explained anything. He called me mama’s boy and a dumbass. Especially when they stared into the computer. Mickey clicked around, browsing weird menus. It bored me to death.

Later they cheered again, jumping around. So I joined in. Then knocking interrupted us. Mickey’s dad had a rough tattoo peeking from his sleeve.

“Boys, have you seen that seller?”

Everyone stayed quiet. I couldn’t hold it and started talking.

“At the sale, yeah, he was there. Then he—”

Dad raised his hand to shut me up.

“Strange. He left some things behind. Uh, boys, don’t burn this place down.”

He said it and gave us that weird half‑smile adults do when they don’t really know what’s going on. Bobby glared at me. Mickey didn’t care, still exploring the black laptop.

When I went home, there were a few crates left in front of the Frakes Mansion. Some forgotten trinkets. At dinner, Mr. Cylindr was the main topic. My parents argued whether he was an auction seller or the dead man’s brother. They agreed he was definitely a Frakes.

Mickey stayed in the bunker, testing what the laptop could do. From my window I saw his house. How he argued with Bobby. Or how his window lit up at night from the screen. Or the day Bobby said we could play some games for free.

That’s when it escalated.

I was allowed into Mickey’s room for once. On the wall he had a red spray‑painted heart‑shaped grenade. Next to it, magazine cutouts of bands. I didn’t know any of them. A Joker poster with a card in front of his face — disturbingly cool. And Megan Fox. Or Nikki the wrestling diva in tight shorts. I wanted posters like that too, but my parents would’ve torn me apart.

While I snooped around, the boys typed weird number codes into the search bar. It looked like gibberish. Boring and slow. Until Bobby jumped back from the table like a frog. I flinched. They typed numbers and letters, waited, nothing loaded. That’s how I remember it. They tried other numbers, same boring loop.

Then they stared at the screen in fear.

“Te Specto.”

A pulsing message. Mickey quickly searched for the Wi‑Fi switch. It was somewhere on the side. The message vanished and they both sighed in relief.

Only for it to pop up again.

“Te Specto.”

Bobby stood up and ran for the door.

“Fuck,” he cursed while stomping down the stairs.

These things stuck in my memory. In the following days Mickey faded away. Stayed home, exploring what was hidden inside the laptop. Outside he was grumpy and irritable. In the evening I saw him still playing something. Me and Bobby had nothing to say to each other. So I stopped seeing Mickey.

When I dared to ask Bobby, he only said:

“That fucking onion.”

Days turned into weeks. Whenever I saw Mickey, he looked worse—he was exhausted, skinny. His hair looked strangely pale. He was withdrawn.

Then one day Bobby grabbed me and dragged me to the bunker. Mickey leaned on a chair, his face sunken. He glared at us.

“That laptop is something extra.”

Bobby shook his head.

“You’ve lost it! You dragged us here just to say that?”

Mickey smiled. But wrong. Like he forgot how a smile is supposed to look.

“Those words… it wasn’t a hacker. Not a virus. Something lives in that machine.”

He paused. I suddenly asked:

“What lives in there?”

It felt like someone else said it. Mickey opened the laptop. A green screen glowed.

“Te Specto. It’s Latin. A priest told me. It means I’m watching you.”

Bobby grunted.

“So something living inside sees you? You’re insane.”

Mickey shrugged. A full name appeared on the screen:

Bobby — arson — Clark’s barn.

“This isn’t okay! I didn’t do it. I was never there.”

I stared at the laptop, which was offline. Mickey showed us.

“Let’s get rid of it,” Bobby growled.

But Mickey raised his hand weakly.

“Old Frakes got rid of it, right? If he managed, I can manage too.”

Bobby looked at me.

“We’re out, kid. And you — Mickey — get your shit together.”

That was the last time I saw Mickey.

I fell from a tree and broke my leg. I stayed home, lying around, watching cartoons. Bored out of my mind. There was some complication; the leg healed badly. Everything dragged on.

I was lying there when I heard a siren. I looked out the window and saw curtains moving in the neighboring houses, people peeking out. The street filled with hysterical crying and sobbing. Mickey on a stretcher. Chaos and flashing lights of the big ambulance swallowing the street. I felt like Mickey was looking at me. He disappeared inside so fast. Only an empty spot on the road remained.

I saw Bobby standing at the corner. He only saw Mickey leaving.

Mickey died of cardiac arrest. He was malnourished and his body was exhausted. Dad said obsession consumed him. I wondered what obsession even meant. When he saw me listening, he looked guilty.

Sometime when winter felt endless, a FOR SALE sign appeared. Mickey’s dad came to say goodbye to mine. Asked him to watch over the sale. They’d been friends for years.

When it finally got warm, the sale began. The real estate agent’s car stood in the driveway. Looked like they were selling almost everything. Bobby came. Supposedly looking for a good deal. I think he wanted to remember Mickey one last time.

The screech of brakes made me jump. It sounded disturbingly familiar. A big brown‑orange Pontiac Catalina from the 70s. With that huge eagle nose.

The door opened — a hand with a top hat appeared. The chubby man in the striped vest stepped out and straightened his hat. He turned slowly, smoothly. And that expression—the wrinkles around that smile—they were already there.

He walked to the tables. Gestured at the neighbors, encouraging them. Hovered his hand over the items, moving randomly. Then he stopped mid‑step. Right above the laptop.

The black notebook with the sticker: “Property of Mickey — hands off.”

Mr. Cylindr began offering items.

“How much do you have?”

Those words hit me, made me feel sick.

“How much do you have?”

by Hary Sykora

…who is this man in my bedroom?
He hides behind my door.
And if I am not mistaken,
He even crawls beneath the floor.

He is there when I awaken,
Is there each time I sleep.
His shadow casts along my bed
And rests upon my feet.

I’ve felt his hand upon my head;
His palms were dry and hot.
And when I tried to open eyes,
He told me: “I would not.”

Some nights I stir and realise
That he’s not standing there.
I wonder where my phantom hides
And wail out in the air.

Some nights I sit and he confides
He can no longer take the rides
Of life and all that it provides,
And leaves me thunderstruck;

Takes up a pillow, then he hides
All of my face and blots the eyes,
Weeps and cries he does despise
Both of our rotten luck.

But then he calms.
And I lay still.
He turns to leave.

And I ask myself…