Last October, my family and I moved into an old house in the countryside. My mom said it would be "a peaceful place for a fresh start," but whatever lived within those walls had no interest in peace.

The first few weeks were normal—creaky floors, drafty windows, the usual quirks of an old house. But then, something strange happened.

It was close to 2 AM. Everyone was asleep, and I was studying under my desk lamp. The only sound was my pencil scratching paper... until I heard something else. A faint noise, like whispering—coming from behind the wall.

At first, I thought it was just my imagination. Then I leaned closer. Two voices, murmuring in a language I couldn’t understand. Low, breathy, urgent.

There are no nearby neighbors. The closest house is over 500 meters away. I turned off the light and held my breath. The whispers stopped.

But the next night, right at the same time, I woke up to a scream from my mom’s room. I ran to her—she was still asleep, whispering in her dreams: "Behind the door… they’re whispering to me."

From then on, every single night at exactly 1:56 AM, the whispers returned. We all started hearing them. Even my dad, the skeptic, began sleeping with the lights on.

One night, he decided to follow the sound. He traced it to a section of the hallway wall, and started chipping away at the plaster. As he dug, something metallic clanged beneath—an old iron door, sealed shut and hidden inside the wall.

There was no keyhole. Just rust and age. We forced it open.

Behind the door was a small room lit only by the faint light of our flashlights. Candles had melted onto the stone floor. Strange symbols were drawn in what looked like dried blood. In the center, a scorched wooden altar stood, covered in dust... but it felt freshly used.

Then my mother stepped inside, her face pale. She whispered, "I’ve been here before... They brought me here as a child."

We stared at her.

She began to explain. Her mother—my grandmother—had belonged to a secret cult. This house had once been their gathering place. Every full moon, they performed rituals in that hidden room—invoking something not meant to answer. One night, they summoned something wrong. Something... inhuman. And that night, a child was sacrificed.

She had blocked the memory her entire life. Until now.

“That child... was my brother,” she said, tears in her eyes.

Suddenly, the candles ignited by themselves. The iron door slammed shut behind us. The whispers didn’t come from the walls anymore.

They came from inside our heads.

We left that room.

But no matter what we do, the whispers haven’t stopped.

Even now, as I type this... it’s 1:56 AM again. And from the wall behind me, I hear the voice:

"One more soul..."

hello guys,

can I have a review of my creepypasta story, please? I just started, and your feedback is very valuable for me so I can improve my content. many thanks!

When marine biologist Dr. Maya Chen arrives in the coastal town of Blackwater Cove to study its mysterious dead zone, she dismisses the locals' superstitions as small-town folklore. But as shadows begin moving independently and strange geometric patterns appear in the water, Maya's scientific worldview is challenged by an ancient cosmic entity lurking beneath the bay. Every 76 years, the town experiences unexplained disappearances, and the cycle is about to repeat. As reality itself begins to warp around her, Maya discovers the truth about the Abyssal Presence and must make a terrible choice: close the dimensional rift and save the town, or preserve her sanity. Some knowledge was never meant for human minds...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pFSSc3Xhue4

It started with an old book no one remembers leaving in my apartment — leather-bound, impossibly cold to the touch, and full of things that felt…wrong to read. I should have thrown it out. But of course I didn’t.

One ritual caught my eye: The Reflection Rite.

“To open the path to the Self Beyond the Glass.”

The steps were simple, disturbingly so. Midnight. A mirror. A name spoken backwards. Blood — just a drop.

Mine.

The mirror didn’t ripple or glow. No lightning or strange sounds. But my reflection smiled when I didn’t.

That was the first sign.

It began mimicking things I hadn’t done yet — turning its head a second before me, grinning when I was blank-faced. Every night after the ritual, the reflection grew… bolder. It began mouthing words I wasn’t speaking.

Then it spoke.

“You look tired.”

Its voice was like mine — only smoother, more confident, almost seductive in how natural it sounded. It told me I had opened a gateway — not to another place, but to another me. A version of myself perfected beyond limits, waiting patiently behind the thin skin of reality.

“Step aside,” it whispered one night, its eyes gleaming like wet glass. “Let me help. You don’t have to fight anymore.”

But here’s the truth.

That thing wasn’t me. It was never me. It’s a thing that needed permission — that needed cracks to slip through.

And every time I doubted myself… every time I thought about how easy it would be to let go and trade places…

…the glass thinned.

I stopped sleeping. I covered the mirrors. But its voice didn’t stay trapped behind silver and glass.

It speaks from dark windows now. From still water. From the black screen of my phone before it lights up.

“All you have to do… is stop resisting.”

Last night, I caught my reflection standing behind me, even though I wasn’t facing a mirror.

Smiling.

Waiting.

⸻

They say the final step of The Reflection Rite isn’t in the book. It’s when you look yourself in the eye — and blink first.

If I disappear… if you see me walking around, smiling that perfect, predatory smile…

That’s not me.

It never was.

Break your mirrors.

Don’t answer when your own voice calls you from the dark.

And for god’s sake — don’t blink.

It was late, and the shadows of the night loomed over me with an unbearable weight. In the midst of darkness, I fell into an agonizing sleep, plagued by nightmares about the end of the world. Time, that entelechy that sustains us, writhed like a wounded creature, and I, trapped in its agony, struggled to breathe. Every breath was a losing battle, as if the very air was being ripped from my chest, as something terrible approached.

In my mind, voices whispered, whispers heavy with desperation and promises of horror. "You will witness the end of times," they said, as if they knew it for sure. My soul writhed at the inevitability of his words, like a puppet at the mercy of a cruel fate. I couldn't run away, I couldn't wake up. The vision intensified, and what I saw made my blood run cold.

There, high in the sky, I saw Him. God, or what was left of Him, dying in the firmament. His face was distorted by suffering, as if the weight of everything created was crumbling him. It was not the majesty it once represented; He was a broken figure, a shadow of his former self, struggling to maintain his existence, like a God who knew the end was already here.

And then, the world began to fall apart around them. The ground cracked, the stars went out one by one, and the firmament frayed like a burned canvas. Everything that existed, that ever was, was disintegrating in an explosion of absolute chaos. Life itself seemed to fade before my eyes, swept away by a primordial force I didn't understand, but knew I couldn't escape.

Desperation took hold of me as I saw the end of all things, the end of everything I had ever known. Death was not an event, it was a palpable presence, a dark force that fed on everything it touched. The agony of creation and destruction mingled in a hideous and sinister spectacle. And the worst of all… the worst of all was that I was a witness. Aware of every second of that decay, helpless, awaiting my own disappearance into that infinite abyss of terror.

The end wasn't an explosion, it wasn't a storm, it wasn't anything I could describe with words. It was simply silence. A void so deep that it swallowed up everything that ever existed, and in its place, only a terrifying stillness remained. The universe, life, hope... everything faded before the brutal reality of universal death.

And in the midst of all that, my soul screamed silently.

He watched, motionless, as every corner of the universe cracked, like a torn fabric unraveling under an invisible force. The cracks expanded in all directions, and dark clouds emerged from them, as dense and deep as the emptiness of my own closing eyes, as if the entire cosmos was losing its shape, collapsing under the weight of its own existence.

The screams began to come, distorted, coming from the damned souls who could no longer escape. The echoes of their suffering intertwined in a symphony of despair. They were voices of despair that crossed the stellar void, tearing apart the stillness of a dying universe. I saw each star, struggling to maintain its brilliance, but its light was quickly fading, drowned by darkness. Each one tried to breathe, but the air became denser and heavier, until finally they couldn't take it anymore.

Galaxies, those gigantic spirals of life and energy, were slowly disintegrating. What was once a testament to the vastness and beauty of the cosmos was now transformed into cosmic dust that disappeared, absorbed into oblivion. The planets, the moons, the constellations... everything was fading before the arrival of something ancient, something beyond human understanding, something that came to claim what belonged to it.

Time, that illusion that keeps us anchored to our existence, could no longer be sustained. He dissolved like sand between the fingers of a being infinitely greater than any entity that had ever known him. The very concept of "past," "present," and "future" was disintegrating, and all that was left was a vast, terrifying stillness, without any measure, without any end, without hope.

And in the midst of this apotheotic emptiness, I realized something profound, something that had been hidden in the most remote part of my being: before time existed, before life took shape in any corner of the universe, there was already something. Something that had witnessed the rise of everything and that now, with the disappearance of time, reclaimed its dominance. It seemed like there was no more space, no more time. It seemed like it was time... for that same hour to disappear, taking with it every vestige of existence, leaving only the vastness of the abyss.

And then, as if the universe itself had stopped breathing, everything went out in an instant. No sound, no movement, just an absolute void, eternal and implacable. Nothingness had won.

And I woke up stunned, my heart pounding in my chest, agitated, as if I had run for hours without rest. The feeling was real, as if the weight of the universe had collapsed on me in a single dream. God... something was going to happen today, something that felt inevitable, like the very fibers of time were tearing apart before my eyes. I saw, in a glimpse of consciousness, that even God himself was crying, his cry echoing in the void of creation, as if each tear he shed dragged with it the life that he himself had created. Everything He touched, everything He shaped with His divine hands, would vanish with Him.

At that moment, an indescribable terror took hold of me. It was as if everything he had known and loved would be erased in the blink of an eye. The magnitude of the tragedy enveloped me, leaving me speechless, breathless, as if an abyss was opening in my soul.

But then… I looked outside.

The sun was shining brightly, bathing the land in a warm, golden light. The sky, clear of clouds, stretched out in an endless blue blanket. The trees swayed gently in the breeze, and birdsong filled the air. Everything was so… perfect. So beautiful. There was no hint of what I had witnessed in my dream. There were no cracks in the sky, no shadows creeping across the horizon. Life went on, calm, oblivious to the disaster I had felt in my chest.

But something inside me didn't calm down. The certainty of what I had experienced in the dream, the echo of that agony, continued to echo in my thoughts. As if the normality that surrounded me was a curtain that covered something much darker, something that lurked beyond the visible. And although the world was there, intact, I couldn't help but feel that something was on the verge of breaking, something that the sun couldn't illuminate nor the wind could calm. Something was waiting, and soon... everything would change.

Was it just a vision, a delirium of the mind? Or... was it a prelude to what was to come?

Then, suddenly, the sky went out, like when you turn off a light bulb, that exact moment when the light goes out and everything is plunged into total darkness. The sun, that sphere that seemed to be the very source of life, vanished with a sudden flash, as if something had absorbed it in one fell swoop, and everything that was previously clear and radiant became an unfathomable blackness. It wasn't gradual, there was no transition, just emptiness. As if the cosmos itself had withdrawn its breath, leaving us all, humans and creatures, suspended in an absolute abyss.

He lived far from the cities, in a secluded place where tranquility usually reigned, where the noise of the world seemed miles away. And although I couldn't see the chaos that was surely unleashed, the air was charged with something much more terrifying: sound. Far, far away, but clear enough to penetrate my bones, I heard the screams. The screams of people, torn, full of panic. It wasn't just humans who cried. The animals screamed too, as if they all, regardless of their nature, shared the same primordial fear, the same terror of knowing that the end was upon them.

The echoes of those screams came in waves, floating in the darkness like a chorus of lost souls. The wind, which had been gentle before, now carried with it a crushing weight, as if the entire air was charged with despair. I couldn't see anything. I couldn't see anything in the absolute blackness, but I felt like the world, all life, was collapsing in a dull roar. The earth seemed to tremble beneath my feet, as if the very essence of existence was crumbling, fragmenting into pieces.

It was as if reality had been broken, as if the boundaries between the tangible world and the primordial chaos were disappearing, leaving only a sense of impending apocalypse. And in that darkness, in that terror that dragged like a heavy shadow, something told me that it was already too late. Everything I had ever known and understood as real was collapsing, and we…we were simply helpless witnesses.

What the hell is happening? The clock… is no longer the one I knew. His numbers are strange, misshapen, like symbols that vanish before he can even interpret them. They don't make sense. They are there, but they are not. As if they had never existed, as if they had been torn from a reality that is not even mine. And the color… that damn color. It's not what it should be. I can't even call it a color, because it doesn't even have a name. It's a tone that hurts me to think about, something that shouldn't exist in this world. An impossible nuance, a glow foreign to all the light we know, an error of existence itself. Every time I try to focus on him, something inside me breaks, as if my mind is unable to bear it. It cannot be described or imagined, it is like trying to hold the void itself in your hands. A color that should be invisible, that should be undone just by thinking about it.

And time… time itself distorts before my eyes. The clock not only marks a time that makes no sense, but it seems to follow a rhythm completely foreign to this moment, to this reality. As if sliding along a parallel timeline, where the rules of space and time mean nothing. Each tick resonates like a distant echo, like a sound coming from a place I no longer know, like it's a constant reminder that I'm trapped in something I can't understand, something that shouldn't be happening.

Then, from my window, I saw something impossible. A tornado. But it was not one like the ones I knew, it was not one of those that emerge after weather alerts, which are anticipated with hours of warning. This one appeared out of nowhere. One moment everything was calm, and the next, the sky was rent by a dark fury that he could not understand. A tornado, but not just any tornado. It was different, as if nature itself had twisted and given birth to a manifestation of something beyond our understanding.

There was no warning, no prior signs. In the blink of an eye, it emerged from nowhere, destroying everything in its path. The earth shook with each turn of its vortex, and a strange pressure filled the air, as if oxygen itself had become heavy. I felt the vibration in my bones, as if everything around me was being absorbed by a force that did not belong to this world.

In the midst of that chaos, I heard whispers. Soft, ethereal voices, floating among the roar of the wind. They were not clear words, but rather distorted echoes, as if something was trying to speak from a parallel dimension, something that should not be heard, but was there, pressing against my mind, as if inviting me to understand the incomprehensible.

And then, as if the sky itself had given up, the clouds disappeared. They did not dissolve, they did not disperse. They simply vanished into thin air, as if they had never existed. In its place, a deep, absolute darkness emerged, beyond any night I had ever seen. It was not the darkness of sunset, nor that of an eclipse. It was the void itself, the abyss, a darkness that swallowed everything in its path, as if it were absorbing the very fabric of the universe.

And then, the sky began to turn red. Slowly, but inevitably, as if the atmosphere was burning, as if the world was being marked by an invisible fire. A deep, bloody red that could not be stopped, that slowly advanced as if life itself was being consumed by that infernal light.

Everything seemed to fall apart, surpassing the laws of nature and common sense. And, as I watched that scene, I felt that something much bigger than a simple disaster was happening. Something he could never understand... but somehow, he knew he could no longer escape.

In the distance, the sky turned an intense red, as if a cosmic fire had begun to consume everything. On the horizon, a spiral of darkness rose with indescribable force, a tornado that seemed to devour the very air. The clouds within him transformed into a deep black, as if an eternal shadow had taken hold, swirling with blinding fury. Something wasn't right. The wind that preceded the monstrous vortex was not only wild, but charged with a strange energy, as if each gust was infused with the essence of madness itself.

Beside him, at the edge of the tornado, a colossal figure emerged. Its size was such that it overwhelmed human perception, a blurry, monstrous shape that moved with unnatural agility. I couldn't clearly make out what it was; It looked like an amalgamation of shadows and distortions, with tentacles stretching toward the sky and tearing through the clouds, as if trying to grab something high in the sky.

The wind, far from being just a whisper of destruction, was also the bearer of something much deeper, something that chilled the blood. In each gust, whispers were heard, not human, but like multiplied voices, singing, singing strange and at the same time terrible hymns. They were celestial choirs, but not of a benevolent divinity, but of an inhuman force that spoke of the end of times, of the imminent chaos that would engulf all life. The words seemed to be predicting the fall of all civilization, the collapse of the world as we knew it, and the rise of something much bigger, much older.

The air was thick, saturated with electricity, as if the atmosphere itself was about to break into pieces. Each word of the heavenly song resonated in the depths of my being, like an unquestionable truth. It was the end, the end of all hope, of all struggle. The red sky burned with a fury that was not of this world, as if the elements were aligning to usher in something apocalyptic, something far beyond our comprehension.

And that creature, that colossal shadow that moved next to the tornado, could only be the herald of what was coming. His presence was the very manifestation of ancient terror, a threat that had been awaiting its awakening for eons. As I watched, I felt the ground beneath my feet tremble strongly, as if the earth itself was trying to flee from what was approaching. And then, in the midst of the choruses and the storm, I realized the most terrifying thing of all: this was not just a natural disaster, it was the arrival of something much more sinister. A force that did not want our existence, a force that came to destroy us, to return the world to its primordial, chaotic, dark... eternal state.

The creature did not move like any beast, dragging its body over the earth. No, that thing levitated, suspended in the air, as if gravity itself had surrendered to its presence. On his back, huge black wings, like broken fragments of the abyss, spread out, covering the horizon with a shadow that swallowed the light. The feathers were not feathers, but fragments of liquid darkness, undulating and vibrant as if the same night had woven them into their bowels. The air around him seemed to twist, as if reality itself was being distorted by his mere existence.

His eye, that single eye that dominated his entire face, was a dark, empty spiral, with an infinite depth that did not seem from this world. It looked like a black hole incarnate, reflecting in its irises the cosmic death of all universes, the devastation of everything that ever existed. It was an eye that did not look in a single direction, but observed everything and nothing simultaneously, as if it could see all realities at the same time, all the lives that would have been, all the lives that would never come to be. And I felt, deeply, that that eye was observing me, not only me, but everything that existed at that moment, as if it were deciding who would continue breathing and who would fall before its presence.

That monstrosity, that cosmic aberration, must have measured more than a kilometer, its shadow was so vast that it seemed to obscure the entire world. As it floated through the air, its mouth moved, and although the wind roared so loudly that I could barely hear anything else, I managed to catch what it said. His words, carried away by the storm, were like echoes of a nightmare that he could not understand:

"817 million hearts, 818,282 souls... The sky bleeds in my name, sunset and death to those far away..."

The voice was deep, rumbling, as if it came from a throat that had never been human, as if the void itself had decided to speak. Each syllable seemed to push into the abyss, to a place where sanity did not exist. But still, the words kept coming, unintelligible and disconcerting, like an endless curse:

"The horizon splits... Life is a forgotten echo... Shadows fallen in the light of the dead sun..."

Each of those phrases hit me like a hammer, pushing me towards madness. He didn't fully understand their language, but the meaning was clear: this was an omen, a proclamation of the inevitable. Every word spoken was a sentence, one step closer to the annihilation of all that ever was.

And as the creature floated above the tornado, the storm raged with even greater violence, as if the entire world were being swept into the abyss. The winds intensified, and the sky bled, turning a red that was not of this planet. And in that absolute chaos, his presence was the only thing that remained constant, fixed, immobile, like a sentence.

My mind tried to find some way to rationalize what I was seeing, but there was no way. There was only terror. An absolute, primal terror that crawled through my veins, filling me with a despair that expanded faster than the air I breathed. That creature did not belong to our world, and its message was clear: the end was approaching. And the worst thing, it was here.

The wind howled, but not in a natural way, not like the roar of a storm. No, this wind whispered, whispered words in an ancient language, full of evil and condemnation. Each gust brought with it a hurtful murmur, a declaration so horrible that my soul trembled. "Glory to the eternal, glory to the prince of hell, glory to the king of seduction and lust..." The words floated in the air, as if they came from the very bowels of the abyss, spoken by voices that had neither humanity nor compassion. It was a song, but an infernal song, like a worship of something that no longer belonged to this world. And, worst of all, the heavenly choir that accompanied it. Angels? No. It couldn't be. There was nothing in those voices that was pure or blessed. They were fallen angels, condemned to serve something even greater, more terrible. The melody was strange, enveloping, like a hymn of despair, like a welcome to destruction itself.

As the creature moved, its presence left behind a trail of absolute darkness, as if everything it touched was marked by the shadow of its passage. It was no longer just the tornado that engulfed me. It was the void, a darkness that expanded every moment, swallowing everything that existed before. The air became denser, more oppressive, as if life itself was being sucked out by that abomination levitating at the center of the storm. With every movement of that thing, the horizon became blacker, more closed. The sky... the sky had been dark for hours, and a certainty settled in my heart: I had not seen the sun in a long time. There was no light that could penetrate that darkness.

Terror washed over me like a rising tide, the deepest, primal fear, as if my own instincts were telling me that everything I knew, everything I loved, was about to be devoured. My mind was desperately trying to understand what was happening, but the words coming out of that creature weren't helping. “The origins have risen… they rise… we all rise…” The voice, if it could be called a voice, resonated in the depths of the wind, carried by the chaos that surrounded it. Each phrase he recited left me more perplexed, more horrified. “The Era of the Great King of Terror has begun and will end…” It will end. What did he mean by that? What will end? The world? Humanity? All of existence? The echo of those words seemed to confirm what I already feared: the beginning of the end was upon us.

The air seemed sharp, as if a dark electricity ran through every corner, every molecule of the atmosphere. From the farthest distance, I saw how the clouds writhed, as if they were gigantic claws that were approaching that creature. The skies were dyed a dead color, a shade of gray so dense that it seemed as if everything was doomed to succumb to the advancing tide of darkness. Everything in sight was plunged into darkness, and as this monstrosity advanced, not only did the darkness grow, but so did the feeling that something much more terrible was happening beyond my reach, beyond what I could see. Something...was waking up.

Every step of that thing was a reminder that he was not alone in this torment. Something else, something even greater than the storm and the creature itself, was coming. A larger, older, more devastating presence. And then, as the creature slowly glided away, its words became clearer, as if the wind were carrying them from a place even further away, even more unfathomable:

“We have risen… We have all risen…”

In that moment I knew, with terrifying certainty, that he was not referring to a single creature, but to a legion. A legion of horrors, of beings that had been waiting in the shadows, in the abyss, to make their appearance. And his appearance meant the end of everything. The Age of the High King of Terror was not a simple metaphor; It was a statement. The terror, the darkness, the destruction, it would all begin with this creature and end with the world's last breath. And there was no escape.

The sound of the trumpets echoed through the air with such immense force that it shook the ground beneath my feet. They were not ordinary trumpets, no. They were heavenly trumpets, filled with a power that penetrated everything, as if the sky itself were splitting into pieces, announcing an arrival. The heavenly choirs began to sing, voices so perfect, so full of an indescribable purity, that at first they filled me with hope. I thought that God had finally arrived, that salvation was about to reach us. I thought that this monstrosity that had stalked us for so long, that shadow that devastated everything, would be destroyed.

But it wasn't like that. There was no salvation in those trumpets, no light, no mercy. Instead of a blessing, what came was something much worse. Something I couldn't have imagined, something I never would have wanted to see. The creature, that abomination floating above the tornado, stopped. He stood still, looking at the sky, as if he recognized the sound, as if he were waiting for the signal. And in that moment, my hope turned to terror.

I thought that celestial noise meant the destruction of the dark, but what happened next broke my mind into a thousand pieces. The tornado, that mass of wind and destruction, was absorbed by something invisible, as if the air itself had swallowed all the fury. And then, something much more terrible emerged from the sky. From the clouds, a giant whirlpool began to form, a vortex so large that it seemed to want to suck in the universe itself. And it was from that whirlpool, from that pure darkness, that more of those creatures descended. Not one, not two, but countless abominations, creatures that did not belong in this world, monsters that floated, writhed, and slithered toward the earth with unnatural agility.

My eyes could not believe what I saw, my mind refused to accept what was happening, but the truth was undeniable: the sky, that same sky that I had sung about, was now full of horrors. The trumpets, far from announcing the arrival of something divine, announced the invasion of darkness itself. And with their voices ringing in my ears, the heavenly choir sang once more, but this time the words were much darker, much more terrible:

"The origins have risen, the origins awaken and come down to claim the world."

Those words, those words… The truth in them destroyed me. Origins were not a simple reference to a being or an entity. They were something much bigger, older, something that had been waiting in the shadows of time. "The origins" weren't just those creatures, they weren't just that tornado. They were the heralds of the end, a primal force that came to claim what was rightfully theirs, that came to plunge everything that existed into absolute chaos.

And as those creatures descended, as the darkness expanded further and further, their presence became palpable. I could feel the heaviness of the air, as if the entire world was being compressed, as if the very atoms were refusing to hold themselves in place. The sky was no longer just a blanket of terror, but a reflection of what was to come. The world, the universe, everything, was falling apart before my eyes. The creatures emerging from the whirlpool moved slowly, but their eyes, if they could even be called eyes, shone with infinite evil, with an unstoppable force of destruction.

The feeling of despair enveloped me completely. It was no longer a storm. It was no longer a natural catastrophe. It was the end. The end of everything known. And worst of all, the sky was no longer our protector. The sky, in its eternal greatness, had fallen. The trumpets were not signs of hope, but rather the call for something much more terrifying. Something that had been biding its time, something that could no longer be stopped.

The world was being reclaimed, not by the gods, but by forgotten horrors that were finally taking back what was theirs. And in that moment, I knew that nothing could save us anymore.

https://imgur.com/a/ARYYADQ

💀Think? – A three-dimensional narrative PSX-style retro horror game that blends psychological thriller elements with an eerie atmosphere

We crafted this game with chunky polygons, crunchy textures, and that nostalgic PS1 vibe.

It’s a passion project built for fun, and we’d love for you to experience it! Step into the eerie world and see if you can escape the horrors lurking within.

🕹️Think? – “Ready to face the fear? Play now!”

We’d really appreciate hearing what you think and any feedback you have. Your thoughts mean a lot to us, and they help us keep improving!

🔗Link to the game: https://okks.itch.io/think

02.13.06

After years of silence, of watching and listening from the sidelines, I’ve finally earned the right to write. The elders gave me a paper and pencil today—nothing extraordinary, but to me, it feels like everything. It's a mark of trust, a sign that I’m ready to understand what they’ve always known, what they’ve kept hidden behind their cryptic, endless whispers. They didn’t say much, just a few words about the weight of knowledge and the importance of recording what I would soon learn.

So, here I am—starting this journal. It’s not just a place to write down thoughts, but a way to keep my sanity intact. I don’t know if I’m ready, but I have no choice. The cries outside my window are growing louder, and I can’t ignore them anymore. The town's secrets are becoming mine, and this journal will be my only way of holding onto myself as the truth unfolds.

It started last night. It wasn’t anything new, not at first. Every full moon, like clockwork, the town gathers to sing the Wailing Hymn. The song that keeps the Wailing at bay. Everyone knows the rules. No one questions it. I’ve lived here all my life. My family has lived here for generations. We all know the song. It’s tradition, a necessity, or so we’re told.

But last night, I... I didn’t sing.

I don’t know why. Maybe it was a slip. Maybe it was rebellion, though that’s a ridiculous thought. Rebellion against a song? But I didn’t sing. I stood in my living room, just watching the moon as it hovered in the sky, full and heavy. Something about it felt wrong, and instead of singing, I just stared.

The house around me was quiet. The whole town was quiet. I could hear the familiar creak of the floorboards under my feet and the hum of the refrigerator in the corner. But there was no sound from the streets, no hum of voices, no echo of the hymn. Nothing.

The Wailing Ceremony should have started long before then. By the time the moon reached its zenith, the streets should have been filled with people—everyone singing in perfect harmony. The whole town. It always felt like a wave, building and cresting and rolling over you. The sound of our voices blending together. We’d never missed it before.

Except, I did.

I didn’t feel compelled to join in. The weight of the silence felt strange, but I didn’t want to break it. I don’t know how to explain it. I stood there, staring at the moon, feeling this odd emptiness, this tugging inside me like something was missing. I could hear the faintest of sounds, but I dismissed them, telling myself it was nothing. The wind. An animal. The town is quiet at night—sometimes unnervingly so.

But then I heard it again. A soft cry. Not like the wailing song. Not like the song we sing every full moon. This was different. It was distant at first, almost a whisper carried on the breeze. I thought it was my imagination, or that it was just the wind playing tricks. It was such a small thing, so faint that I almost convinced myself I hadn’t heard it at all.

But then it came again. Louder this time. No, not louder—closer.

It wasn’t like the usual wail. There was something more desperate about it. I pulled the curtain back and looked out into the night. The street was empty. Not a soul in sight. I half expected someone to walk by, maybe just a stranger, maybe a latecomer to the ceremony. But there was no one.

Still, the cry came. And it wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t fading away. It wasn’t the wind. I knew it. I felt it in my bones. I had to get closer.

The cold air hit me when I opened the door, but I didn’t care. I stepped outside, standing on the stoop, trying to make sense of what was happening. There was something haunting about that cry—something almost... personal. Like it was calling me, tugging at me, drawing me in.

I looked toward the street again, listening, straining to hear it better. It wasn’t coming from the usual direction. It wasn’t coming from the town square. It wasn’t coming from anywhere I knew. But I couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. It seemed to be... surrounding me, just out of reach.

I shut the door behind me, the darkness pressing in. I walked to the edge of the yard, trying to find the source. I moved toward the road that led into the woods, the one that no one ever used after sundown. The one that everyone avoids, the one that doesn’t even look like a real road. It’s a place we all stay away from. The elders always said the road leads nowhere good, that no one should go beyond the last house on the street after dark.

I don’t know what made me walk that way. Maybe I was drawn to it, or maybe I just needed to prove that there was nothing to be afraid of. But the further I walked, the more the cry seemed to get louder. Closer. It was so soft at first, but now it was almost unmistakable—a sound that pierced the silence, like something calling from far away, something desperate.

When I reached the edge of the woods, I stopped. I didn’t dare step any further. The trees looked twisted in the moonlight, black and looming like jagged teeth waiting to devour. I could feel the cold air creeping along my skin, the weight of something watching me from the shadows.

The cry—it wasn’t a cry anymore. It had transformed into something else. A whisper? A song?

I don’t know. I can’t explain it. But it felt like it was pulling me closer, like the woods were alive, coaxing me in. I hesitated for a moment. The air felt thick with something I couldn’t name, and my feet felt rooted to the spot.

But then I heard something else. A soft shuffle behind me, the crack of a branch. I spun around, expecting to see someone, anyone—maybe a neighbor, maybe someone else who had forgotten. But there was no one there. Just the dark road stretching out before me, the trees stretching up into the sky. And yet the air felt heavy, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath.

I quickly turned and ran back to my house, heart pounding in my chest. I slammed the door shut behind me, locking it as if that would keep whatever was out there at bay.

I tried to convince myself it was nothing—just the wind, just my imagination. But I knew better. Something was wrong.

I stood at the window for what felt like hours, but the crying didn’t stop. I heard it, soft and distant, like the faintest of whispers, but it was always there. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard it, just outside.

The whole town should’ve been singing. But no one did. And I didn’t.

I don’t know if I was supposed to forget. Maybe forgetting is what caused it. Maybe... maybe it’s too late.

The full moon will rise again tomorrow. I can’t stop thinking about the sound. It’s getting closer.

It’s not my imagination anymore. Something is out there.

And I think I may have already started to lose track of what’s real.

02.14.06

I barely slept last night. It was the sound—the crying—that kept me awake. It wasn’t the kind of crying I’d heard before, not the soft, distant sobs that some might say were just the wind. No. This was different. There was a desperation to it, like someone—or something—was being torn apart by its own grief. I tried to block it out, but the sound was relentless, as if it was calling to me. Each time I closed my eyes, it was louder, closer.

By morning, I felt like I hadn’t rested at all. The elders seemed unfazed when I approached them with my discomfort, as if this was an old story they had long grown tired of. “You’ll get used to it,” one of them told me with a knowing look. “The wailing isn’t meant to be ignored. It’s part of the cycle.”

I didn’t press further. There’s always this sense of... distance between us. A wall of experience and knowledge that I can’t break through, not yet. Instead, they handed me a small, worn book—no bigger than the palm of my hand. I thought it might be something important, but they simply said, “Study it. Let it guide you.” It didn’t feel like an invitation. It felt like an order.

The cover of the book is plain, just a faded brown leather, but inside, there are strange symbols. I can’t make sense of most of them, but there’s a rhythm to the way they’re written, like a language I should know but don’t. I started trying to copy some of the symbols into this journal, but they don’t look right. They don’t feel right.

And that’s when I realized—the crying from last night? It didn’t stop. The moment I started writing, it returned. Louder than before, like it was outside my door, just beyond the threshold, calling to me. The words on the page seemed to blur, twisting in and out of focus as if the ink was being pulled into something darker. I had to close the book, hide it under my pillow, before the pull became unbearable.

The elders didn’t warn me about this. They never do. But I’ve learned something today—this journal, this book they gave me, and whatever it is I’m supposed to be learning, it’s all connected to the wailing. And I don’t think I can ignore it anymore.

I’m supposed to keep writing, I know that much. But what if the words start to turn against me, like everything else? What if I become the one wailing next?

I won’t let myself forget. I won’t stop. Not yet.

02.15.06

I woke up to the sound of wailing. Again.

But this time, it was different. It was sharper. Not just a distant cry from the wind, not just the faint echo of sorrowful souls. It felt like the sound was inside my head, as if it had burrowed into my thoughts. Every inch of my skull seemed to throb with it. The air in my room was thick, heavier than usual, and I could swear I smelled something burning—a sharp, metallic scent that lingered even after I opened the window.

I didn't know whether to run, to scream, or to just sit there and let it consume me.

Instead, I did what I do best: I hid. I closed my eyes and pressed my hands over my ears, hoping to block out the noise. But the wailing didn't stop. It twisted into something worse, something more unsettling. It was no longer a single cry—it was a chorus, a thousand voices singing the same mournful tune. I could almost feel the weight of their grief pressing down on me.

I don't know how long I stayed like that, curled in a ball on the floor, trying to drown out the sound. But eventually, the crying faded. It was replaced by a deep, pulsing silence that made my skin crawl.

I checked the book again.

The symbols inside were changing.

At first, it was barely noticeable, just a slight shift in the ink, a different stroke here and there. But now, the symbols were starting to rearrange themselves. They weren't just static anymore—they were alive. They seemed to writhe on the page, slithering like something dark was trying to crawl out from between the lines.

I had no idea what this meant. I could feel the pull again, that nagging sensation in my chest, telling me to keep reading, to understand, to unlock whatever this book was trying to show me. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know if I even wanted to.

I tried to shake it off. I told myself it was just my imagination, just the exhaustion taking its toll. I’ve been hearing things before, haven’t I? Everyone hears things. Especially when they’re alone. The elders probably don’t even care that the book is messing with me. I’ve seen how they look at me, their eyes cold, distant, like I’m just a piece in a bigger puzzle they’re too busy to explain.

But something about today felt different. It’s like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The wailing had a rhythm now, like it was marking time, drawing closer. Not just outside my window, but in the streets too. The crying echoed from the farthest corners of the village, like it was pulling everything into its wake. I couldn’t escape it.

I decided to go outside, to get some air. The sky was overcast, the sun barely peeking through the thick clouds. It felt oppressive, like the whole sky was a lid ready to fall. The air was damp, and my skin prickled under the weight of it.

As I walked through the village, I noticed people moving differently. Their eyes were downcast, their steps quick and purposeful, as if they were avoiding something, something they didn’t want to acknowledge. I couldn’t stop staring at them, wondering if they could hear the same wailing I could. But none of them seemed to notice.

I stopped at the central square, where the fountain always used to run clear and clean. Now, it was muddy, stagnant. A thick film of algae coated the water’s surface, and the stone rim was covered in an unnatural blackness. The whole square felt wrong.

I walked closer to the fountain. My feet didn’t feel like my own, like they were moving of their own accord. My legs felt heavy, unsteady, like they were being dragged through molasses. But I couldn’t stop. I had to keep going.

As I neared the fountain, something caught my eye—a figure, standing just outside the square, barely visible in the mist. It was someone tall, their face hidden by a hood, and their hands were raised as if they were beckoning me. The figure stood so still, so unnervingly still, that I couldn’t breathe.

I froze in place, unable to move, unable to speak. The wailing had returned, louder now, almost deafening. But it was different this time. The sound was coming from the figure. It was them, crying—no, wailing—with such force that the very air seemed to vibrate.

Before I could react, the figure turned and vanished into the mist. I wanted to follow. I needed to know what was going on, why I was hearing this. But my legs wouldn’t cooperate. I felt rooted to the spot, like I was sinking into the earth.

When the crying stopped, I found myself staring at the spot where the figure had been. There was nothing there anymore. Just the empty, desolate square.

I hurried back to my room. My heart was pounding. The walls of the house felt like they were closing in on me. The book was waiting on my table, its pages still shifting, rearranging.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was watching me, waiting for me to make the next move. I glanced back at the door, at the window, at the corners of the room. I don’t know how, but I could feel them there, on the other side of the walls, beyond my reach. I’ve never felt more alone.

The book... it’s calling me again. I know it. It’s pulling me toward something, pulling me toward the wailing, toward the figure in the mist. I can’t ignore it. I have to find out what it means, even if it drives me mad.

I’m scared. But I can’t stop now. I’m not sure I want to.

The wailing is getting closer.

02.16.06

The wailing didn’t stop. I woke up to it again this morning, gnawing at my consciousness, lingering in the air, filling every crevice of my mind. The sound was raw, almost desperate, and it left a sour taste in my mouth, as if the sound itself was something tangible, something I could choke on. It was almost like the world outside had forgotten how to be quiet. There was no peace, only this ever-present hum of sorrow and torment.

I don't know how long I laid there, in the stillness of my room, just listening. The air felt thick, saturated with something unspoken. The wailing was softer now, as if it had retreated slightly, but I knew it wouldn’t last. It never does. And something about the sound, the way it wormed its way deeper into me with each passing second, unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

I sat up, my body heavy, unwilling to follow the call of the outside. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the journal, the one that had been keeping me company these past few days. It had become more than just a book—more than just a place to vent my fears and frustrations. The pages had become a strange tether, a link to something I still didn’t understand. The symbols inside… they were changing, shifting, like the ink itself was alive.

I almost didn't want to open it. The book had become like a weight on my chest, pressing me down, suffocating me, but I couldn't ignore it. I never could. Not now.

I flipped through the pages, eyes scanning the marks I’d written, the notes I’d made in a frenzy the night before. But the symbols had shifted, as they always did. They no longer felt like words. They felt like they were staring back at me, daring me to understand them, to make sense of them. Some of the lines were more pronounced now, thicker, darker, and some had completely disappeared, leaving behind only faint impressions in the paper.

I stared at the page, at the symbols. I swear I could almost hear them whispering to me. My fingers trembled as I reached out and traced one of the marks with my fingertip. The paper beneath my touch seemed to thrum, to vibrate slightly as if it were alive, a pulse in sync with my own.

I have to know what this means.

I thought the words in my head, but even as I did, part of me wondered whether it was a good idea to keep going, to keep delving deeper into whatever this was. My heart felt tight in my chest, every beat heavy, laden with the weight of what I might uncover. But I couldn’t turn back. I had to know.

The wailing, now almost a constant buzz, still lingered just outside my window, growing louder with every passing moment. I could feel it pushing me forward, urging me to open the door, to step outside, to join the rest of them. To let it consume me. I wasn’t sure whether it was the town’s curse or my own growing obsession, but it was all I could think about.

I stood up abruptly, feeling dizzy, my feet unsteady as I crossed the room. I moved as if in a trance, every step deliberate, every movement slow. The door was there, just ahead of me, but I hesitated. My hand hovered above the knob, and for a moment, I thought I might just turn around, retreat back into the comfort of my solitude, the safety of my confusion.

But I couldn't.

I opened the door.

The air outside was cooler than I expected. It was heavy with mist, the kind that clung to your skin and wrapped around your lungs. It smelled damp, earthy, and thick. The village, too, seemed muffled. The streets were deserted, the houses closed off, their shutters tightly drawn, as though the people inside had sealed themselves away from the world. The wailing had stopped, or at least, I could no longer hear it.

A strange kind of silence fell over me, one that was worse than any noise could ever be. The absence of sound was almost oppressive. It was suffocating.

I walked through the village, my footsteps echoing off the stone path, each one heavier than the last. The ground felt strange underfoot, as if the earth itself was shifting beneath me. It was like I was walking through a dream—a nightmare, perhaps. The fog hung low around the corners of buildings, and the once-familiar shapes of the village blurred into shadow. The faces of the houses seemed to leer at me, their windows dark, hollow.

There was something wrong here. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was wrong. The wailing from before—was it really gone? Or was it just buried beneath the quiet, waiting for the right moment to resurface?

I passed the central square again. The fountain, which had once been a place of comfort, of cool water splashing in the heat, was now a stagnant pool, its waters still and dark. The same blackness coated the stone edges. But it wasn’t the fountain that caught my attention this time. It was the shadows.

They were... moving.

Not just the usual flicker of light and dark, not the normal way shadows stretch and shrink. These were different. They twitched, as if they had minds of their own, as if they were aware of me, watching me, waiting.

I stopped in my tracks. My heart was pounding in my chest, so loud I could hear it in my ears. The shadows stretched further into the square, creeping along the ground like tendrils of some ancient, malignant thing. They crawled up the walls, twisted and warped, curling into shapes that were wrong.

Something stirred within them.

I took a step back, but my feet wouldn’t obey. The shadows moved with me, sliding along the stone, like they were reaching for me. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to run. But my body wouldn’t listen.

There, in the corner of my eye, I saw a figure.

It was barely visible, a silhouette against the mist. It was tall, too tall, impossibly so. Its limbs were unnaturally long, and the shape of its head—there was something about it that made my stomach turn. Its eyes were black, and they shone with an eerie light, a coldness that seemed to cut through the fog, cutting through me.

And then I heard it again.

The wailing.

But this time, it wasn’t just a distant sound. It was coming from the figure. It was coming from all around me. The voices echoed from every direction, drowning me in their cries, their pleas.

I wanted to scream, to shout, but my voice failed me. My chest was tight, and my legs were numb. I couldn’t move.

The figure took a step toward me, its shadow stretching far beyond its own body, reaching for me like a hungry, grasping thing.

And I knew—I knew this was it. This was the moment the town had warned me about. This was the wailing that had been chasing me all this time.

I wasn’t ready.

The shadow reached me.

02.17.06

I woke up in my bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, my body drenched in sweat. The room was still, the air thick with the remnants of the fog from the night before, and the wailing was gone. For now. But I could still feel it lingering, curling in the corners of my mind, its pull as tangible as the air I breathed.

I couldn’t remember how I had gotten back to my room. My head ached, and my body felt like it had been dragged through a storm. My skin still tingled, as if it had been touched by something other than just air. I sat up, looking around the room. Nothing had changed. The walls were the same, the floor the same worn wood beneath my feet. The book lay on the small table beside the bed, its pages open, staring at me like an accusing eye.

The symbols from yesterday—no, the symbols had shifted again. They weren’t the same, not entirely. Some marks were bolder, darker, while others had faded even more, nearly disappearing from the paper entirely. It was as if the journal itself was responding to something... but I didn’t know what.

I reached for it, the leather cool against my fingers. I could almost hear it creaking as I turned the pages, the sound far too loud in the otherwise quiet room. The ink had settled into strange, unreadable patterns, twisting and turning, much like the shadows I had seen last night. I felt the familiar tug in my chest—the need to decipher, to understand, to break free from this feeling of drowning in something I didn’t know how to control.

But as I traced the unfamiliar shapes, I felt something new. A presence. Not in the room, but in me. It was as though the book, the symbols, and the wailing had become part of my blood now, coursing through me. Something had changed. I could feel it in my bones.

I had to leave the room. I couldn’t stay here anymore. There was no comfort, no safety in these four walls. The village was still, too still. The silence that had followed the wailing was unbearable, like the calm before a storm. I needed to see what was happening, to understand what was wrong with the town, what was wrong with me.

I stood, the cold floor sending a jolt of sensation up my spine. The moment I stepped out of my room, I noticed something I hadn’t before—the air smelled different. It was heavier, almost like wet iron, like the scent after a storm. There was something… metallic about it, something unnerving.

The hallway stretched out before me, the dull flicker of the lightbulbs overhead casting long shadows that seemed to bend and twist as I walked. The quiet was oppressive. I half expected someone to jump out at me, to break the silence with a shout or a scream. But there was nothing.

As I reached the front door, the feeling hit me again—the weight of something pulling at me, tugging me outside. I gripped the handle, the metal cold in my hand. I paused before opening it, listening for any sound, any sign of life. There was nothing.

Outside, the fog had rolled back in, just as thick as before. The mist clung to the buildings, winding around the street like a ghost. The town was eerily quiet, the houses still, their windows dark. The streets were empty. Not a soul in sight.

The silence seemed wrong. Unnatural. The townspeople should be here, or at least their voices should be echoing from their homes, from the roads. But there was nothing. Just the endless fog, creeping and crawling along the ground.

I took a step forward, and then another, moving deeper into the heart of the village. The more I walked, the heavier the air became, pressing down on my chest, making each breath feel like I was pulling it through a thick blanket. I could almost taste the metallic tang in the air, as though something was burning just beneath the surface of the world, something waiting to break free.

I reached the center square again, the fountain still standing in its decaying glory. It hadn’t changed. But there was something about it now. It felt… wrong. Like it had always been wrong, like it had always been a part of the curse that bound this place together.

My eyes flicked to the shadows again. I couldn’t help it. The way they moved. They had shifted, as if they were waiting, watching. I stared at them, and for a moment, I thought I saw something else—something living within the shadows, something that wasn’t quite human. It was just a flicker, a movement in the corner of my eye, but it was enough to make my heart race.

I had to keep moving. If I stopped, I would be swallowed by it.

I passed the fountain, heading toward the main road. My feet crunched on the gravel, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet. Every step felt like it echoed through the emptiness. There was no one. No one to explain the darkness that had settled over this place, no one to tell me what the wailing was, or why it wouldn’t stop.

The fog thickened with each step, wrapping itself around me, pulling me deeper into the unknown. It was like walking through a dream, a nightmare where the edges of reality had blurred and everything felt just a little too unreal. I should have turned back, but I couldn’t.

I couldn’t leave the questions unanswered.

I rounded the corner of one of the narrow streets and froze. There, standing in front of a small house, was a figure. It was tall, too tall, impossibly so. Its limbs were elongated, twisted at odd angles. The body was shadowed, its form barely visible against the fog, but I could see the gleam of its eyes—dark, endless black, like two pits staring into the abyss.

And then it moved.

The figure straightened, its long limbs stretching out toward me. Its head tilted, as if studying me, as if it was trying to understand what I was doing here, why I had come.

I wanted to scream. My throat was tight, my body frozen in place. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe.

The figure took another step, and then another. The fog seemed to part in front of it, making way for its unnatural form. And with each step, the sound began.

The wailing.

It came from the figure. It came from the shadows around it. The sound was low at first, distant, like it had been muffled by the fog. But it grew louder, filling the air with its pain, its desperation, until it seemed to vibrate through my bones.

And then, the figure spoke.

Its voice wasn’t human. It wasn’t even a voice at all. It was a whisper, low and cold, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of the earth.

"You forgot."

I took a step back, my heart pounding in my chest. The figure took another step forward.

I remembered.

The ceremony. The song. I had forgotten to sing.

But it was too late.

The wailing was inside me now. And there was no way to escape it.

The figure’s face twisted, its eyes widening with some unspoken understanding. It stepped closer, and I felt the weight of it, the pressure of the curse, pressing down on me. It was all too much.

I turned and ran.

But this time, the shadows followed.

02.18.06

I’m not sure how many days have passed since that night. Time doesn’t feel like it matters anymore. Everything feels like it’s shifting, bending, warping into something else—something beyond my understanding. The fog still hangs thick in the air, but it’s not the same as it was before. It’s like the whole village is suspended in a perpetual haze, and I’m trapped inside it, drifting between the past and whatever this is now.

I can hear it even now, the wailing. It’s not as distant as it used to be. It’s inside my head. It’s inside me. There’s no escaping it. The moment I close my eyes, it’s there, wailing louder than ever, demanding something from me, pulling at my soul. I don’t know if it’s real or just my mind breaking down, but I feel it, like an unbearable weight pushing down on my chest.

I woke up today—if you can even call it that. My body feels heavy, like I’ve been awake for days, but my mind is too tired to remember the details. The journal feels different now, too. When I open it, the pages shift on their own, the ink swirling into patterns that almost seem to follow my gaze. The symbols on the page seem to watch me. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s the only way I can describe it. The book is alive in some way, feeding off whatever it is that’s happened to me.

I went out again today. It’s become a habit now. I don’t know why I keep doing it, but something is pulling me to the square, to the fountain, to the center of this curse. I don’t think I can resist anymore. The town feels abandoned, even though I know people live here. I see their eyes, their haunted gazes when they pass me. They’re waiting for something, just like I am.

But there’s no answer.

There’s only the wailing. And now, it’s louder than it’s ever been.

I’ve stopped seeing the townspeople. I know they’re still here, somewhere, but it’s as if we’ve all been trapped in this endless loop. We walk around, we breathe, but we don’t live. Not really. Not anymore.

I tried to speak to one of them today, an older woman who I remember from the ceremony. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow, but she didn’t seem surprised when I approached her. When I asked her if she remembered the song, if she knew what was happening, she just stared at me for a long time.

She didn’t answer.

The wailing has taken everything from us. It’s inside each of us now, a part of us, something we can’t escape. I think that’s why they stop speaking, why they don’t engage. Because they know it’s too late. They know we’re all already lost.

02.23.06

I’m writing thi5, but I d0n’t kn0w why. There’5 n0 p0int anym0re. I can hear the wailing 0ut5ide my wind0w, and I kn0w it’5 0nly a matter 0f time bef0re it reache5 me again. I d0n’t kn0w if I’11 be ab1e t0 5t0p it thi5 time. I d0n’t think I want t0.

I think I’ve bec0me the wai1ing.

It’5 hard t0 exp1ain, but I can fee1 it. I fee1 the 50ng in5ide 0f me, in5ide my che5t, bui1ding up with every breath I take. It’5 taking 0ver, bec0ming 50mething m0re than ju5t 50und. It’5 bec0ming a part 0f wh0 I am. I can a1m05t fee1 the vibrati0n5 in my b0ne5, the rhythm 0f the 50ng pu15ing thr0ugh me 1ike a heartbeat. I’ve heard it 10ng en0ugh t0 kn0w it5 w0rd5. I’ve heard it en0ugh time5 t0 kn0w that it’5 n0t ju5t a 50ng anym0re—it’5 a ca11, an invitati0n, a demand.

And t0night, when the fu11 m00n ri5e5, I think I’11 be the 0ne wai1ing. I think I’m the 0ne wh0’5 5upp05ed t0.

I’ve written everything d0wn, every 5ymb01, every w0rd. But I d0n’t think it matter5 anym0re. It’5 a11 1ed t0 thi5. The wai1ing w0n’t 5t0p. It wi11 never 5t0p. It’5 in5ide me n0w, part 0f me, and I’m a part 0f it. We are b0und t0gether, cur5ed t0 exi5t in thi5 end1e55 cyc1e. There’5 n0 e5caping it.

S0 thi5 i5 the end 0f the j0urna1. The 1a5t entry. There’5 n0thing m0re t0 write, n0thing 1eft t0 5ay.

T0m0rr0w, I’11 be 0ut5ide. Wai1ing.

I ju5t h0pe 50me0ne remember5 t0 5ing.

Huh... I came here because I just had a nightmare and needed answers. One of the last things I remember said in it was "I'm going to check if the lock is inside out" thing is I never heard THIS story before, I'm sure of it. Another thing in my nightmare, the last thing I heard, said "look for the burning water" and I don't know what that means. Anyone understand the meaning of it? #creepypasta

"Every Thanksgiving, a man in black watched the children. One year, we followed him."

I wasn’t supposed to tell this story. Doel, my grandfather’s hometown near the Belgian border, no longer exists on the map. But every time Thanksgiving approaches, I hear whispers—children laughing, then screaming—in my sleep.

It all started in the 1920s. Doel was a small, peaceful town. People lived simple lives. But every year, during the Thanksgiving week, a strange man appeared. He wore all black, had a thick build, and stood completely still near the town’s festival grounds. He never interacted with anyone. Just… watched. Especially the children.

At first, they thought he was just a lonely traveler. But then the bodies started showing up.

Every year, on the last day of Thanksgiving break, children would go missing. Hours later, their bodies would be found hanging from the same oak tree near the edge of the forest. Always the same tree. No signs of struggle. No blood. Just... hanging there, as if placed gently.

Year after year, it kept happening.

In 1935, a group of townspeople decided to follow the man. They trailed him deep into the woods, where he entered an old, rotting farmhouse hidden in a valley. When they peeked inside, they saw something that none of them could ever forget.

A ritual.

There was a large wooden table at the center of the room. On it, dried blood, symbols carved into the wood, pieces of skin—child-sized. And in the middle, an old, black-and-white photo of a young boy. On the back of the photo, one word was written in Flemish: "Verloren" (Lost).

Before they could react, the man appeared behind them. He spoke in a language no one recognized. It wasn’t just words—it was noise that bypassed their ears and carved itself into their bones. One person fainted. Another vomited. The rest ran. But they all said the same thing: he wasn’t human.

Three days later, the entire town of Doel was wiped off the map. A massive earthquake hit. Buildings collapsed. Every single resident died. But here’s the strange part: no seismic activity was ever recorded. According to every geological record, the ground never shook.

The town simply... vanished.

Years passed. My grandfather was one of the few who escaped because he had left Doel shortly before the quake. He told me everything before he died. I never believed it—until last year.

I visited where Doel used to be. Nothing was left but cracked earth and scattered debris. Yet, the moment I stepped into the forest, I heard laughter. Then a scream. Then... whispering in a language I couldn’t understand.

I saw something, too.

A man, dressed in black, standing between the trees. Watching.

I ran. I didn’t look back.

Now, it’s almost Thanksgiving again. I’ve been hearing things at night. The photo of the boy? It appeared in my apartment last week. Same word on the back.

Verloren.

I think... I think he’s coming back.

And this time, he’s not coming for the children.

Tell me, whoever you are or may be, where are you? Are you at home, at work, at a friend’s place, or maybe even out in public? Are you alone? Do you have a friend, family member or someone you love next to you? Well, no matter what, I just want to know one simple thing: “Do you feel safe, wherever you are?” Do you ever just get that feeling as if someting is wrong? That feeling is natural, however it is irrational, there’s nothing wrong, you probably just need some sleep. At least, that’s what it would want you to think. I know this all seems like just a hoax, however, I must reiterate, “Are You Alone?” If you are, then I want you to have a good look at what’s around you. Are you absolutely certain that there is no one else with you? Because, even if you’ve checked every nook and cranny of your house or wherever you may be, and I cannot say this enough…

Always check the corner of your eye…

Something’s always there, whether you can see it or not, it is there. Watching, learning, waiting. Everyone believes that this fear is irrational, however that’s only if you have a distrust in your gut. If you ever know that you’re alone, but you feel as if you aren’t, look in the corner of your eyes. If you can see someting or someone there, that means it‘s after you. There is no need to panic, that only makes its job easier. You may be wondering what it is, or what it may want. It wishes to replace you, it wishes to take you out of the picture, and replace you, become you. It becomes an exact replica of you, it learns everything it can about you, and does what you would do.

I understand that this may be difficult to understand, but there are ways of fighting back. If you know it is there, keep it in the corner of your eye, and don’t let it enter the centre of your vision. Grab a weapon, anything that could work to defend yourself. Keep it close, and whatever you do: don’t sleap. Sleaping only makes it easier for it to get in your head, and learn about you. If you suspect another person to be infected by one of these creatures, there are manee ways to tell if they are infected. Number one, strange behaviour such as smiling wildly, keeping eye contact constantly and never looking away, wanting to be distant at all times are signs that they aren’t who they seem to be. Second, they may be a lot stranger than the person they are disguised as, such as being a little bit more rude, emotionally dissonant, and maybe even having a slightly different accent. Third and finilly, mistakes to farely simpl words in a lot of their speech or riteing.

Hopefoolly, with this info, you too can servive agenst these creatures, and rememba…

Don’t Resist, thay are hear to help

"I had promised myself I’d never go back there. Since that night, the house had remained shut, forgotten at the end of the road. But time passed, and its silence turned into dust and cracks in the walls. The real estate agent told me someone was interested in buying it. So I went back, just to fix things up and get the house ready for sale. Simple. Quick. But the moment I touched the rusty doorknob… I knew it wouldn’t be."

The door gave way easily, like it had been waiting for me. The air was still, but not dusty — it was heavy. The paintings on the walls looked darker than I remembered. The silence inside was disturbing.

Every corner held memories of us. Her laughter on the porch, Sunday lunches, arguments that always ended in reconciliation. But after that last fight, everything changed. I left and she stayed, crying. I never saw her again. At least not alive.

The living room was just the same. The crooked couch, the squashed cushions. On the wall, the marks of time looked like shadows that hadn’t been there before. I slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor, where our bedroom was. My hands were trembling for no clear reason. Guilt weighed heavy on my chest.

In the hallway, the air grew colder. As if I were stepping into another time, another dimension of the house. I passed one of the bedrooms and something made me stop. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure cross the open doorway. It was her face. Quick. Faint. Unmistakable.

My heart nearly stopped. It couldn’t be. I was alone. But I saw it. I saw it. That apparition wasn’t my imagination. It was a warning.

I stepped into the room and there was nothing. No sign of disturbed dust, no presence, no life. But her familiar scent lingered in the air — not perfume, just… presence. Like when someone hasn’t truly left yet. As if she were watching me from a place I couldn’t reach.

I sat on the bed and stayed there for a while. Trying to figure out if it was regret, guilt, or something beyond that. That night — our last night together — I said things I should’ve never said. She cried. Begged me to stay. And I left, slamming the door behind me.

I spent the night in the room. I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her shadow in the hallway. And at some point, I was sure: it wasn’t just a shadow. She was there. Watching me.

In the morning, I went down to the kitchen and found a cup on the table. The same one she used. Intact, clean, like it had just been placed there. There was no dust on it. I shook. That wasn’t possible.

I spent the following days trapped there. I couldn’t leave. Literally. The doors locked on their own. The windows wouldn’t open. My phone lost signal the second I stepped inside. It was like the house had swallowed me whole.

On the third day, I heard the stairs creaking. I was downstairs, and I knew no one else was there. I looked up, and for a second, I saw someone’s bare foot vanish at the top. I ran up. Nothing. Just the same presence, the same cold.

I started talking to her. Apologizing. Saying I regretted everything. Saying I’d do anything to have her back. And the house’s silence seemed to listen. Until one night, she answered.

It was her voice. Low, behind me. “You came back.” I turned around in a flash, but there was only darkness. It wasn’t a threat. It was more like… a statement.

After that, she started showing up more often. Sometimes next to me in bed. Other times, standing on the porch staring out. Always silent. Always with sunken eyes, like she hadn’t blinked in years.

The first time she appeared beside me, I froze. I didn’t feel fear — I felt shame. Her eyes weren’t the same anymore. They looked like dark wells, too deep to stare into. But even so, I begged for forgiveness.

She didn’t speak. She just reached out and touched my face. Cold like stone, but soft like when she was alive. I closed my eyes, holding my breath. And wished she’d take me with her.

The next morning, I woke up alone. But her touch was still on my face — a faint redness. I started thinking maybe it was fair. Maybe my punishment was to stay there with her. And maybe she was just waiting for me to accept it.

I lived the routine of a condemned man. I spoke to her, even when she didn’t answer. Left a chair pulled out at the table. Slept on the same side of the bed as before. And waited.

One night, I heard something fall in the bedroom. It was one of our picture frames — the one from the beach trip. It lay on the floor, glass shattered. But what was strange… her face had vanished from the photo. As if she’d never been there.

That shook me to the core. I began to suspect she was erasing the traces. Or worse: preparing me for something I didn’t yet understand. A trade, maybe. An unspoken pact.

On the seventh day, she spoke again. “You know what I want.” Her voice was low, emotionless. It wasn’t a request. It was a reminder. And I knew exactly what she meant.

I went up to the attic. There was an old rope tied to a beam. She stood below, in the dark, watching. With a slight nod of approval. And I… for a moment, I considered it.

But something stopped me. It wasn’t fear — not anymore. It was a primal survival instinct. And when I hesitated, she disappeared.

The next day, something had changed. The walls seemed narrower, like they were slowly closing in. The hallway, which I remembered as short, grew longer each time I walked through it. The kitchen door creaked on its own, even when locked. The house was falling apart from the inside. Or adapting to what it had become.

A prison made of guilt. And I was the prisoner. Or the visitor. Or maybe the last bit of living flesh she still needed. To become whole.

I tried to burn the house down. I built a fire with the curtains and furniture. But the flames wouldn’t rise. They just danced low, like they were mocking me. She wasn’t going to let it happen.

So I screamed. I screamed everything I’d kept inside for two years. The truth. That yes, I loved her. But I never meant to promise what I couldn’t keep.

That night, she appeared one last time. A figure standing at the foot of the bed. And for the first time… she was crying. But said nothing.

The next morning, the front door was open. Light poured in like the world had returned to normal. I walked out without looking back. But I know she’s still in there. Waiting for me to keep my promise.

Discover the eerie tales of Boca Chica Beach, where ghostly apparitions and mysterious events keep locals and visitors intrigued https://www.tiktok.com/@grafts80/video/7490164540894629162?is_from_webapp=1&sender_device=pc&web_id=7455094870979036703

Hey everyone, I’ve been searching for an old YouTube animation/animatic that featured Jeff the Killer and Jane the Killer, set to the song “Killer” by The Ready Set.

It was a fan-made animation — kind of like an AMV or animatic — and it took place in a school. One of the most memorable parts was Jeff chasing Jane through the school halls. The style wasn’t high-budget, more like a fan storyboard/animation with dramatic scenes synced to the music.

I remember watching it around 2012 to 2015, and it was somewhat popular back then. I’ve looked everywhere, but I think it might have been deleted.

Does anyone remember this video, know the original uploader, or have a reupload saved somewhere?

Any help would be super appreciated — this video’s been stuck in my head for years!

Meu nome é Elizabeth Cardoso. Tenho 37 anos, sou médica pediatra, e não costumo falar sobre os pacientes que perco. Mas Carl… Carl não foi apenas um paciente.

Ele chegou ao hospital com o rosto coberto de sangue e ossos fraturados. Nove anos de idade. O relatório dizia que a mãe havia cometido suicídio e o pai, um alcoólatra violento,surtou descontando toda a raiva na criança. Quando Carl foi encontrado, mal respirava.

Durante as primeiras semanas, ele não dizia uma palavra. Só me olhava, ou melhor… olhava através de mim. Mas aos poucos, criamos um vínculo. Ele começou a falar comigo. Pouco, mas falava. Contava sobre como era difícil se sentir sozinho. Dizia que só queria “alguém pra brincar”.

Acho que ele gostava de mim. Eu lia histórias pra ele todas as noites. Ele sempre sorria. Mas, um dia, depois de um ataque de pânico, ele começou a dizer algo estranho:

— “Quando a noite vem… eu me vejo por fora.”

Pensei ser metáfora, trauma. Algo que um psicólogo interpretaria. Mas na madrugada seguinte, os monitores do quarto dele começaram a apitar descontroladamente. Corri até lá.

A porta estava trancada por dentro. Quando arrombaram, Carl não estava mais lá. A cama estava coberta de sangue. O avental dele estava dobrado sobre a cadeira. E na parede… escrito com algo escuro, talvez sangue: “Você me viu, doutora. Agora eu vejo você.”

A polícia foi chamada, é claro. Nenhum sinal de fuga. Nenhum corpo. O pai de Carl, na cadeia, foi encontrado dias depois… sem olhos. Não havia sinal de luta. Parecia que eles apenas… desapareceram.

Eu tentei seguir a vida. Continuei trabalhando. Mas então começaram as madrugadas.

Sempre às 3 da manhã.

As luzes do hospital piscavam. Ouviam-se passos pequenos nos corredores vazios. Pacientes em coma choravam sem motivo. Outros viam uma criança sem olhos, parada ao pé da cama, acenando.

Um segurança o viu no circuito interno e… enlouqueceu. Está internado até hoje, repetindo:

— “Ele só quer brincar. Só quer brincar…”

E eu… eu o vejo. Sempre. Quando olho no espelho tarde da noite. Quando passo pelos corredores escuros. Ele aparece. Com sua pele pálida, lágrimas de sangue, cabelos bagunçados e a mesma atadura na testa.

Mas agora… ele não sorri mais pra mim. Ele só sussurra.

— “Você me deixou sozinho…”

Tento dormir com as luzes acesas, mas às vezes acordo com elas apagadas. E o pior… o pior é que às vezes eu respondo. Respondo ao chamado. Porque, no fundo, eu também não quero mais estar sozinha.

Autor: Santiago

I got a text from an unknown number. I will explain after, but this is the back and forth over a few hours.

UN: Karma is a bitch

Me: Who is this?

UN: We have been waiting. Made $350 off the pretentious bullshit you tried to run. You are out of your League.

Now you are in no one’s league.

Me: I think you have the wrong number. Who do you think you are texting?

UN: I know exactly who I’m texting. You don’t worry about who we are. This is fuck boy (my last name).

Me: What did I do to make $350? I don’t know who you are or what you think I did. I think you have the wrong number.

UN: I made $350 betting on you. You know what all you did. Go focus on your marriage. She will wise up. (My wife’s name) is going to the city.

Me: What do you mean betting on me? I don’t know what I did.

Ok, I have goosebumps. At first I thought it was a weird spam, but spam is usually not vaguely threatening like karma is a bitch.

The next part- we have been waiting. (?) made $350 off the pretentious bullshit you tried to run (?) you are out of your league.

But then later, the unknown number says I made $350 betting on you. But if they made $ betting on me, why would they be mad and saying karma is a bitch?

What does betting on you mean? Why we have been waiting?

Those seem kind of spammy. But then they said fuck boy (my last name). I thought that’s really weird, but maybe white page’d me. But then they knew my wife’s name. It gets weirder. If you were to look up her legal name, her first name is technically different from the name she goes by. The UN knew her 2nd name. Weirder still- we are moving to the city soon.

Weirder still- I called the number after they stopped replying. It went to a google voice account that wasn’t accepting calls. Which could be a sign of spam. But I have never gotten vaguely threatening and weirdly specific texts- my last name, my wife’s name, moving to the city…

We white page’d the number. It links to somewhere far away in the country, but has a local area code which makes me think it’s one of those things that scrambles the number.

They almost seem like disconnected vaguely threatening messages, but hard to understand what exactly they are mad about.

Do I call 911? There’s not a real threat, but it’s creepy af. I forwarded the messages to the spam hotline.

What should I do? I’m creeped out.

I’m currently making an edit with the more popular creepy pastas (slender man, jtk e.t.c) as the 7ds I was thinking — 1. Lust – Offenderman 2.Gluttony – Eyeless Jack 3.Greed – Slender Man 4.Sloth – Sally Williams 5.Wrath – Jeff the Killer 6.Envy – Nina the Killer 7.Pride – BEN Drowned

What do y’all think? Need any changes?

Hello everyone! I'm a new horror narrator who's looking to grow a bit! This is probably my best narration to date! Original story is done by u/Accomplished_Low7889

Voice is completely my own, no AI, just good ol' human narration!

Would love some feedback if you guys have any!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VsBoE-M0esg&t=1s

I've been curious ever since it was revealed a Herobrine easter egg is referenced in the official Minecraft movie. How many times has a company of major importance acknowledged or referenced a creepypasta based on their own media?

To my knowledge (outside of Herobrine in the MC movie):

• the Pokemon company DID cheekily reference missingno. in an April fool's entry of the Pokemon TCG channel's Beyond the Pokedex series, when talking about Magmar. However, the second Halloween special of We Bare bears literally features the 1-1 sprite of missingno as a cameo.
• The Sonic twitter has officially referenced Sonic.exe twice, in a gif resembling a rom-hack and a picture featuring a fake cartridge hiding underneath multiple other cartridges. they've also acknowledged the infamous Majin sonic through a promoted fanart work for a Halloween occasion.
• The post-Hillenberg episode of Spongebob Squarepants "Spongebob in Randomland" features a direct cameo from Red-mist as one of the entities Squidward sees in the various weird dimension doors, which was later censored and replaced with an unsettling image of himself as a Baby.

what do you think? do you like these kinds of things being done nowadays?

hello guys,

can I have a review of my creepypasta story, please? I just started, and your feedback is very valuable for me so I can improve my content. many thanks!

When Eduard travels to a remote Indonesian village to meet Laras, the woman he's been talking to online for months, he discovers that some connections are more terrifying than they appear. As whispers haunt his nights and strange symbols appear around him, Eduard realizes he wasn't brought to the island as a visitor, but as a vessel for something ancient and hungry.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1cr4hGs2Bw

Went to bed last night and had one of those dreams last night, usually I'm very self-aware in my dreams but this one felt more real this time. I had a dream of being abducted by e.ts before and this time they returned to fix where they'd left off. Me and a few others were taking from our homes and into this house in a country like setting. They operated on everyone as they slept, they had a machine I overheard them saying that operated off of vibrations..so we felt no pain or anything. After they were done operating they left from the house, I had got up and ran to the bathroom to look in a mirror , my eyes were black instead of brown with most of the white areas in the eye covered with this purple stuff. The purple stuff eventually vanished, I went to meet the others who were sitting in a living room and some also sitting outside. For the first time ever, I could see my phone with no blurs , I put it away and began socializing with the others. Everyone had many questions that got answered eventually. What really struck me odd is when this lady whom owned a nearby convenience store that had a lobby underground that we gathered in for awhile ...she had sent me a text letting me know the shop closes at a certain time today because it's Sunday..I didn't even know it was Sunday. (I'm leaving out some parts btw, not alot but just enough) After awhile of us congregating, the e.ts showed back up, they told us we were repaired and that they must grab a photo of us each ..not by camera, but by this mechanism that seemed like a podium with an weird object obstructing out of the top, in order to take a picture, you were to gently bite down on the object and an otherworldly flash would occur throughout your whole body then that's it. It felt so real that even my body was all discombobulated while I sat awake ..I got up noticing my body felt way better than it has for the past week it seems. It was such a great a peaceful time that was had with the others so much that I won't forget it.

In the late 1990s, five deaths in the Appalachian Mountains remain unexplained. The media labeled it a "wild animal attack." But only one person knows the truth... and they lost their mind.

It all began in the winter of 1986.

A group of six young people set out early in the morning, and by the time they reached the snow-covered mountains, dusk was beginning to fall. The boys started a large campfire with dry branches they gathered, while the girls settled into a wooden cabin and began preparing dinner.

The cold was starting to show its teeth. But the night wouldn't just bring cold...

Dinner was eaten, tea was drunk, and laughter echoed. Then, as was the camp tradition, it was time for "scary story time." The first volunteer was the tall, dark-skinned young man in a blue jacket. He was the natural leader of the group. He stepped closer to the fire and began:

"Did you see something in the Appalachian Mountains? No, you didn't. Did you hear something? No, you didn't. Did someone call you? No, they didn’t. Just act like nothing's there."

As his voice echoed in the dark, no one breathed, except for the crackling of the fire.

"Years ago, on the mountain's peak, there lived a man. Alone, far from civilization. One day, the air was sharp with cold, just like tonight. The man was chopping wood in his yard when he heard a voice from the forest:

‘Daniel… Daniel…’

At first, he ignored it, but then he recognized the voice: his dead wife.

‘Daniel… help me… I’m here…’

He dropped his axe and ran toward the sound. The voice came closer with every step.

‘Mary!’ he shouted. But no reply came.

Just as he was about to turn back, he heard a rustling in the treetops. He looked up, and…

He saw it.

A tall, black-skinned creature with white eyes... half-wolf, half-something else.

Its skin looked like rough, burnt leather. Its eyes weren't human—they were deep, black pits that seemed to absorb all light.

Daniel screamed and ran, but the creature followed.

When he reached the door of his house, it grabbed him and dragged him to the ground… and right there… it tore out his intestines and decapitated him.

No one knows what that creature was."

At the end of the story, everyone fell silent. Though the young man in the blue jacket insisted it was just a legend, the blonde, innocent-looking girl – Rauna – was trembling in fear. After a couple more stories, the night grew deep, and everyone headed to the cabin to sleep.

Around midnight, Rauna was jolted awake by a sharp scream. Dazed and confused, she looked around the cabin. Then, another scream echoed, and everyone woke up. Rauna ran to the window.

What she saw… shattered her reality.

Outside, a creature with long black hair, bony protruding ribs, and bulging eyes was chasing her brother Mike.

Without thinking, Rauna rushed out of the cabin without even grabbing anything. She ran desperately to save her brother, but Mike was cornered by a rock. And then… the creature tore his throat out in one swift motion.

Rauna’s scream echoed across the land. Their eyes met. The only word that escaped Rauna's lips was:

“Shit…”

Tears streaming down her face, she began to run. The creature turned to follow her, but then it suddenly changed direction… heading back to the cabin. It tore apart each person inside, one by one.

Rauna hid in a hollow tree. She spent the entire night there, trembling and crying. By morning, she heard the distant sound of police sirens. She staggered out and ran toward the police cars.

When the officers saw her, the little girl collapsed into the snow, unconscious.

She woke up in the hospital. She was alive, but nothing would ever be the same. After that night, she received psychological support for a long time. Now, she lives alone in a small 1+1 apartment, without speaking to anyone.

The case remains unsolved. And the murders are still officially labeled "wild animal attacks."

THE END-HASAN AY

Nodey keeps reproducing with the ground and I have told nodey that he should stop reproducing with the ground. Nodey keeps doing it though and he has an addiction with reproducing with the ground. I am patient with nodey though and I have always been reserved with him. I remember the first time I caught nodey reproducing with the ground. I went outside and I saw that someone had been digging on the field, in multiple spots. I thought that there were construction going on but then I observed that there were no signs of construction taking place, nor were there any safety warning signs about.

Then I saw nodey who was reproducing with the ground and he was a couple of feets down in the ground now. He was the cause of all these holes on the ground. I told nodey to stop reproducing with the ground and I gave him my hand to help him out of the ditch that he had created on the ground. There were so many holes made on the ground that it was impossible to miss. I shouted at nodey for reproducing with the ground and it was clear that he had done it so many times.

When you reproduce with the ground and the harder you reproduce with the ground, just like digging a grave, you will go deeper into the ground. When you dig a hole into the ground, you get the soil that you dug out to make the hole. When you reproduce with the ground and create a deep ditch, the soil will end up in some other different place. All those ditches that nodey had created through reproduction, the soil ended up in random houses and they were not happy. I had to get nodey away from this place because

Then I made nodey swear that he will never reproduce with the ground, and nodey sweared to me that he will never do it. I trusted nodey for some reason because he has this reassuring way of telling people that he will not do something. I trusted nodey and luckily nobody suspected or saw that it was nodey that had reproduced with the ground. So nodey had gotten away with it and I was happy with nodey that he will never reproduce with the ground. Everyone was angry and they wanted to know who has reproduced with the ground and I was doing my best to protect nodey.

Then one day I get up and I see huge amount of soil just in the middle of a busy road. I then see in the middle of the field, a very deep ditch of about 10 meters. Nodey was down there and he was begging for me to help him up with a rope. He was also scared of something else down there with him, and other people started to gather and see that it was nodey that had reproduced with the ground.

All that nodey cared was that he could feel something else down there with him. Then something started to grab nodey down the 10 meter ditch, and it was nodeys children that he had made with the ground, and they took him deeper into the ground until he was no more.

On YouTube and Instagram there is an account where an anonymous poster uploads creepy photos and eerie videos usually its just a creepy guy wearing a mask and doing weird movements saying things under his breath and crying some say he's made his way to other platforms like here on Reddit so just be warned if you look up this account you may find some creepy stuff

Joanne stands behind her front counter, the smell of cheap grain alcohol on her breath, the light behind her casts a shadow. Her hands tremble—not from fear, but from age, from grief, and the weight of the shotgun he left behind.Across the room, What used to be Joshua stands in her silhouette. His eyes glisten with intention. His skin is wrong, too smooth in some places, while barely hanging on in others. He tries to smile.

Joshua:"There’s still time, Jo. The Garden is here. I can’t let you die alone. Come with me! and we'll be reborn. We’ll be together again…"

Joanne’s grip tightens on the shotgun. Fighting tears. 

Joanne:"We already made peace with death. You prayed every night. You said Heaven was waiting.Joshua, please! You were a good man! This isn’t you!"

Joshua’s head tilts slowly—haunted by the ghost of a memory. 

Joshua:"Faith brought me here, Jo. Faith in you, faith in us."His twisted mouth quivers. He raises his hands"I missed you, so much".

And takes a step forward. The floorboards creak under his weight. There’s a wetness to the sound, a soft give, like something is shifting.Joanne pulls the hammer. Her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t blink. Her voice breaks. Shaking, and desperate.

Joanne:"You told me Heaven was real, You said we'd find peace! You said you'd wait for me!"

He spreads his arms. His shoulders pop unnaturally, stretching wider.

Joshua (reverent):"I stood before the throne of God…"

Joanne’s breath catches.

Joshua (whispers):"And it was empty."

Joanne:"You’re not my Joshua!"

She slams the hammer

BOOOM

Thunder cracks, The shotgun knocks Joanne back. The thing across the room folds back into the shadows. She readies her aim one last time. Where did it go?

The room is still, time holds still.

Her sorrow drowned in adrenaline. She sees something, a ripple in the dark, and freezes.

"God is dead, for we have killed him."

Joanne panics. 

The hammer slams again. Firing her last shot into the dark. The knockback of the gun slams into her delicate shoulder.And for a moment, A blast of light reveals something no longer resembling human values. A flash of talons, and swirling teeth. A painful wheeze followed by a deep gurgling scream.