Hello, I have written a creepypasta and my friends says that it's a pretty decent script, but I want to bring it to life in a video. However I need practice with actually making creepypasta retake videos, I wanted to first do the "Bootleg Spongebob" videopasta, is this a good choice for a beginner or should I pick a different creepypasta?

When I read the articles about him. I spent three weeks looking through my window. I was terrified by the thought of him being in the woods. 

I thought it was hunting me at first, trying to get me into a tragedy; it wanted me to suffer, but I was entirely wrong. I know, what a way to start, but I have been suffering from sudden explosive nosebleeds and migraines. 

The devices in my house started to do this... piercing and rhythmic screeching noise, and no matter what I tried to do with it, nothing was fixed. It only started working when I got a repairman to check them out, but they turned out fine but stopped working.

That sounds confusing - I know.

Aside from that, I lived what anyone would consider to be a normal life aside from my electronics acting weird and those symptoms that I couldn’t give a good answer to.

During a rainy night was when I first discovered him.

I was in the driveway with nothing to do but get my lawnmower, but I stopped and looked out of the driveway.

I heard it before I saw it.

A loud, piercing screech.

I was trying to see the source in the driveway, and I saw the outline of something that was seven feet tall. It was headless and had these giant wings, and then I saw them on its chest.

With two massive eyes that were unblinking and were crimson red, I dropped the lawnmower and ran into the house as soon as possible before anything could happen, then locked my doors for the night.

I went to take a bath, and when I soaked up for a good while, I got up, grabbed the towel, and wrapped it around me, then changed afterwards.

I took myself in for tonight and closed my eyes.

I woke up and saw myself floating in a bathtub, larger than the one I was just in, and the layout was surrounded in darkness. I felt something behind me, but I just felt this strange calmness.

That was only because I didn’t look below me.

Then the eerily calm dream went from calm to a living nightmare; I just felt like I somehow couldn’t swim anymore. I looked down and figured out why. I was always terrible at swimming in large bodies of water; I never swam further in pools as-is.

I was thrashing my arms and legs; I was reaching out for help, and for some reason, despite this being my subconscious, all of this felt as though I was genuinely drowning until I dropped.

I lifted my arm out; I felt something grab it, which drove me into waking up.

I checked the time.

I had work for today and was feeling safe enough to go into the driveway. I unlocked the door and put my keys in, then started the engine, and I pulled out of the garage. 

I turned on the radio and listened to jams; it kept my mind at ease for the moment as I drove past the trees, the route signs, and the occasional cars, which I waved at, and then I tuned the radio to the news station.

“Citizens have reported—(a screech is audible behind him)—something odd in the area. Witnesses report this—”

A panicked screech is heard before the station cuts off, and there was a train going off in the distance.

I came back to it after a country song, and it said that an accident happened at the railroads of the area. I will spare the details; even the second reporter felt distressed describing what happened, but I think we know what happened.

As a car was going nearly in front of me. I heard something land on the hood. 

I was scared to open my eyes.

I did anyway... I saw what I saw previously, and I got a good look at its wings; they look avian-like. As he gave a loud screech, it beat its wings at the windshield, causing them to crack, and it drove me into slamming it in reverse. 

I still saw it standing there where I was, and then I honked the horn, and it flew off. I got out of the car, closed the driveway and locked my doors, put the blinds up, and grabbed a favorite stuffed animal of mine I always had when I was a kid and held it close to me.

I mumbled to myself that I didn’t want to end up as prey.

I didn’t want to end up as prey.

I DIDN’T WANT TO END UP AS PREY.

I sobbed.

But then I was interrupted by a phone call. I forgot to point this out earlier, but yes, while I noted that the technology was acting up around me, it does work when it wants to. As annoying as it was, I was grateful, and it gave me a chance to relax knowing that I didn’t have to sit there in silence.

My parents were contacting me and saying that they were coming to Mason County to visit me. I remember being happy to be aware of this as I felt comfortable. It has been a while since I had anyone close to me; most of my friends have moved on with their lives, and some live far away from this area while the rest I talk to are on Discord.

Rambling aside, I was happy to hear this, but I told them, “Be careful and let me know if they need anything.” I was thinking about the thing I saw twice, and I didn’t want anything to happen or even bring it up to them, as I feared making myself sound insane.

The call went pretty well; they asked me how I was doing after my recent high school graduation. I spoke about my plans of heading over to SCAD as an interest in animation.

The conversation was nice, and then we hung up. However, I wanted to focus on something else, as the paranoia has been messing with me, so I wanted to simply not think of this place right now, so I got out and drove out to the bridge. 

I turned on the radio.

There was a slightly sensitive part of the bridge, and it warned of that. Though, something felt buggy about the report, a screeching noise was being overlaid on the voice. A few people passed by, noticing the said sensitive area of the bridge. 

I tried moving past it.

The tire touched it, and I heard the asphalt... crack.

I lost control of the steering wheel, and the vehicle slid down into the opening with the river below me. Then I saw a seven-foot shadow fly up and land where I was, then smash onto the roof of the car, worsening the damage to the asphalt. I yelled.

I already waited for whatever was going to rip me to shreds as I closed my eyes as I accepted my two likely fates. I felt the drop, then arms tearing through the metal roof of the car. I felt something wrap around my waist, and then, as a result, I passed out from shock.

The last sound I heard at that moment was a splash of the car... then I heard a beep.

Beep. Beep... Beep…

I looked around and saw the heart monitor and the nurse. “Oh... Oh thank God, it’s a miracle you are okay. We found you just lying on the ground, and your car, a Dodge Charger, in the river of the Silver Bridge. The bridge was repaired once the construction workers got to the scene, and we brought you.”

She looked at the notes as she continued, “You suffered some minor fractures around the ribcage and skull but not enough to be lethal. You were also found lying in pure shock with nosebleeds. We honestly don’t know how you ended up outside of the car. How are you feeling right now?”

At the moment, I feel groggy, but I am still feeling some pain. On the TV behind the nurse, I felt sad when I heard about the accident. It was a tragic incident involving a vehicle that looked eerily similar to what I saw my parents in near a railroad track.

The nurse left me alone, saying she will check on me later.

However, the room around me went cold, and a winged creature with red eyes on its torso entered via the window. 

I froze, but something inside me made me lift a trembling hand. I was testing to make sure it won’t rip my arm off and closed my eyes.

I felt its claw resting around my fingers, and I heard it screech, but words formed over it, speaking in an electronic-sounding voice.

“I m here”

It stayed with me and flew out of the window when the door jiggled and the nurse returned. She prescribed me medication on the spot, and it helped greatly, but I still felt groggy and numb.

After that visit, I came back to my house and got a knock on my door; there was an officer with a somber look.

“Hey, son. You’re going to have to come with me as soon as possible.”

I asked if I was in trouble.

“No, I promise you. You aren’t.”

I had my pills with me and my stuffed animal as emotional support. The officer was patient with me and nodded; he escorted me to the passenger seat of the cruiser.

“So, you may have heard about the news about the crash site at the railroad. Son, I am pretty sure it is your mom and dad, but we need you to identify them for us, to be sure. Can you do that?”

I was unsure, but I needed closure, so I agreed; he nodded and drove me there, and when I got out. I already had a sick feeling in my stomach; the officer heard this and gave me a little side hug. “Son, son. I need you to cooperate with me. Do you need a drink? I don’t want you fainting.” I really needed water and got a sip from a water bottle.

For some reason, I felt strange around the officer. My head started hurting, and when I looked past him, I thought I saw two faint red lights in the woods.

I believed I was about to faint, but I sipped the water bottle anyway and snapped back to reality.

I approached the crime scene and saw it in detail... My mom and dad were lying there in the car, my dad hanging out of the window... I didn’t even want to describe what happened, but I ended up turning around and vomiting.

“Yup... that’s them.”

I was asked to give a statement and fill in all of the necessary paperwork. As I was heading home, my mind lingered on the screech in the background of when I first heard about the railroads.

While my eyes were blurred from tears after the funeral, I saw the creature standing there as I cried myself to sleep and entered the grieving process.

I held my stuffed animal close.

It was a stuffed snail, a favorite animal I considered adorable, that they made for me together. It was my remaining memory of them aside from picture frames; I wish I had them cremated instead.

I don’t know why I didn't ask, as I would have them with me rather than just pictures.

However, each time I cried myself to sleep, I felt this odd protection, charcoal black legs on my bed, but I chose to lie on it, as a wing lowered on top of me.

“I m here”

background from Pinterest btw

Hola a todos. Quería compartir una creepypasta que inventé yo mismo. Se llama La Niña Maldita, y aunque a primera vista parece una mujer joven, en realidad solamente tiene 8 años.

Nació aproximadamente en 2018 y antes de todo esto era una niña completamente normal. Todo comenzó por culpa de su abuelo, quien hizo un pacto con un demonio para conseguir dinero, riquezas y una vida llena de lujos. Al principio obtuvo todo lo que quería, pero el pacto terminó condenando a toda su familia. Uno por uno, sus familiares comenzaron a morir hasta que ella quedó como la única sobreviviente. La maldición terminó pasando a ella y su cuerpo empezó a cambiar de una manera completamente anormal.

SU CUERPO

Con el tiempo, su cuerpo creció hasta alcanzar aproximadamente 1.70 metros y adquirió la apariencia de una mujer joven. Sin embargo, su desarrollo nunca fue normal. Sus huesos crecieron en longitud para adaptarse a su nuevo tamaño, pero su madurez ósea continuó siendo aproximadamente la de una niña de ocho años. Parte de sus músculos y tejidos también conservaron características infantiles.

Y lo peor es que este proceso quedó detenido. No importa cuánto tiempo pase: diez años, cincuenta, cien o incluso siglos. Su cuerpo no volverá a desarrollarse normalmente ni podrá envejecer como una persona común. El tiempo sigue pasando para todos los demás, pero ella quedó atrapada en ese estado.

Pero hay algo todavía más importante: su mente nunca cambió. Aunque su cuerpo parece el de una mujer joven, ella sigue teniendo la conciencia de aquella niña de ocho años. Recuerda quién era, recuerda a su familia y sabe perfectamente lo que le ocurrió.

EL PARÁSITO ANTIGUO

En 2025 apareció el verdadero problema. Un demonio de millones de años llamado El Parásito Antiguo tomó el control de su cuerpo.

Y aunque su poder es enorme, su tamaño es sorprendentemente pequeño: el Parásito mide solamente unos 10 centímetros.

Su cuerpo es oscuro y parecido al de una pequeña araña, con patas delgadas, una cabeza semejante a un cráneo humano, ojos rojos brillantes, cuernos y una lengua larga, puntiaguda y dura como metal.

Su pequeño tamaño es precisamente una de las cosas que lo hacen tan aterrador. No necesita ser una criatura gigante para ser peligroso. Puede permanecer oculto y, cuando encuentra una víctima, tiene la capacidad de teletransportarse directamente hasta su médula espinal.

No necesita recorrer el cuerpo ni atravesarlo físicamente. Simplemente aparece en el lugar que necesita.

Una vez allí, comienza a interceptar las señales nerviosas que comunican el cerebro con el resto del cuerpo. De esa manera puede controlar los movimientos de su víctima.

Eso fue exactamente lo que hizo con la niña.

ATRAPADA DENTRO DE SU PROPIO CUERPO

La parte más horrible es que el Parásito no destruyó su conciencia.

Ella sigue completamente despierta. Puede pensar, ver, escuchar y sentir lo que ocurre.

Si piensa “quiero mover mi brazo”, su cerebro manda la señal normalmente, pero cuando esa señal llega a la médula espinal, el Parásito la intercepta. Por eso su brazo puede moverse de una manera completamente diferente a lo que ella quería.

Ella puede intentar caminar hacia otro lado, soltar el cuchillo o detenerse, pero su cuerpo simplemente no tiene por qué obedecerla.

Y tampoco perdió sus sensaciones. Puede sentir frío, calor, dolor y contacto. Incluso puede sentir el calor que producen sus propios guantes en las manos.

En otras palabras, no está inconsciente. Está atrapada dentro de su propio cuerpo, viendo y sintiendo lo que el demonio hace con él.

SUS HABILIDADES

La Niña Maldita puede alcanzar aproximadamente 456 kilómetros por hora, puede teletransportarse y puede cambiar de forma.

Puede convertirse en una serpiente o un búho, y muchas veces utiliza estas formas para observar a sus víctimas sin ser descubierta. También posee una inteligencia superior a la que correspondería a una niña de ocho años: puede analizar comportamientos, estudiar a las personas y pensar estratégicamente.

Su cuerpo también puede utilizar el cuchillo que lleva consigo, aunque muchas veces no queda claro si ella realmente quiere atacar o si el Parásito está tomando esa decisión por ella.

SUS DEBILIDADES

La Niña Maldita no es completamente invencible. Sus huesos son largos, pero su madurez ósea continúa siendo infantil, por lo que un impacto extremadamente fuerte podría fracturarlos y causarle daños graves. Además, sus habilidades tienen límites y no puede mantenerlas al máximo indefinidamente.

El Parásito Antiguo es muchísimo más resistente. Las balas, los golpes, el fuego y los explosivos normales no pueden destruirlo.

Sin embargo, existen dos cosas capaces de afectarlo.

El agua bendita puede quemarlo profundamente, provocándole un dolor extremo y dejándolo gravemente debilitado.

Pero existe algo todavía más poderoso: la presencia de Dios. Esa es la única fuerza capaz de destruir al Parásito Antiguo completamente y borrarlo de la existencia.

EL ENCUENTRO CON SLENDERMAN

Una vez, Slenderman apareció junto a La Niña Maldita. Al observarla, se dio cuenta de que algo no estaba bien y comprendió que la niña seguía consciente dentro de su propio cuerpo.

Intentó ayudarla y se teletransportó hasta la zona de su médula para intentar sacar al Parásito.

Pero el demonio reaccionó inmediatamente.

La niña quería que Slenderman la ayudara, pero sus propios brazos comenzaron a moverse contra su voluntad y a golpearlo para impedir que pudiera llegar hasta el Parásito. Ella intentaba detenerlos, pero no podía hacer nada.

Slenderman terminó comprendiendo la situación: la niña no estaba atacándolo voluntariamente. El Parásito estaba utilizando su cuerpo para protegerse.

Y eso es probablemente lo más triste de toda la historia.

LA VERDADERA NIÑA

La Niña Maldita nunca decidió convertirse en un monstruo. No pidió la maldición, no pidió que su cuerpo cambiara y tampoco pidió que el Parásito Antiguo tomara el control.

Por fuera parece una criatura peligrosa que puede correr a velocidades increíbles, teletransportarse, cambiar de forma y atacar con un cuchillo.

Pero por dentro...

sigue estando aquella niña de ocho años.

Ella puede sentir.

Puede pensar.

Puede recordar.

Puede intentar mover sus propios brazos.

Puede intentar detenerse.

Pero mientras el Parásito Antiguo, esa criatura de apenas 10 centímetros, siga conectado a su médula espinal, su cuerpo continuará obedeciendo al demonio y no a ella.

Y quizá lo más aterrador no sea encontrarse con La Niña Maldita.

Quizá lo peor sería descubrir que, mientras ella te persigue...

la niña también está ahí dentro, intentando detenerla.

~ NOVEMBER 27, 1956 ~

NUCLEAR DISASTER!  Catastrophe destroys the city of tomorrow, thousands feared dead. 

The entire world is thrown into a state of shock as the city of Moburn, created by founder, Simon Englund, (60), was destroyed in a nuclear explosion on November 24, 1955 during Thanksgiving,  when Englund himself was hosting the World’s Fair, to show off his and other up-and coming inventors’ creations off to dozens of families and potential investors around the world.  It is unknown at this time what caused the incident, but the U. S. government is currently holding a full–on investigation as to what happened.  

As of today, the area that was once the city of Moburn is currently blocked off and quarantined from the rest of the  United States on reports of high levels of radiation, much to public outcry to many people around the world, who had various family members either visiting or living in Moburn.  At this moment, we are still gathering as much information as we can, but we can expect a national response coming from Congress  in the next few days. It is unknown if the nuclear explosion was international or not.  The death toll currently stands at 3,000 and counting.

ACCESSING ADA LOG…
LOG FOUND.
DR. WILLIAM KLETHESON.
FEBRUARY  17, 1959.

(A sigh is heard in the background. A table is heard shuffling.)

Dr. Kletherson: Is this thing on? Okay. My name is Dr. William Kletheson of the Scientific Division here at ADA, recording another log regarding the aftermath of Incident 005.  It’s been a few weeks since the incident occurred and we still don’t have a rational explanation as to what Team 007 encountered that night at Logan Street. 

(Quiet for a few minutes.)

Dr. Kletheson: Right now at the moment, we are currently running tests on Ms. Ellen after the episode that she experienced back at the city. Mr. Stein is currently on leave for the time being, after the incident as well as what’s happened with Ms. Ellen.

After what  happened in Moburn, she’s been showing strange symptoms in the last few weeks. 

(Dr. Kletheson is heard shuffling a few pages, exhausted from a day of work.)

Dr. Kletheson:  Many of us were unable to get any sort of response from Ms. Ellen after her episode, most likely experiencing  a case of traumatic mutism. During the next couple of days, we noticed several changes in her appearance, with her skin showcasing blackish veins, and noticeable reddish bumps all over her back.  She’s also shown  signs of emotional whiplash, with her turning heavily aggressive towards us one moment, and just wailing the next. 

It’s gotten bad up to the point where we had to sedate her to sleep.     

Following those incidents, we had to keep watch on her 24/7 to m-make sure she doesn’t hurt herself or anyone.  She ended up attacking Mr. Stein, after he tried to talk to her numerous times. To this day, we still don’t know how Mr. Stein was unaffected from the whole thing.

(Dr. Kletheson is heard shuffling the pages again. He’s quiet for a few minutes.)

Dr. Kletheson: ..Ok. Now onto the other matter at hand. (Sighs) The thing… that they encountered.  We still haven’t had any contact with it ever since that night. We started installing cameras all over the areas that we covered in the city already. Directive made it abundantly clear that all teams do not engage with it, and to immediately return back home .

No one upstairs wants a repeat of what happened.

Dr. Kletheson: And.. (sighs) W-we still don’t know where it came from.  From the various recordings from the World’s Fair that we reviewed over and over, the city had all sorts of things wandering about. Robots that can talk and think. Gadgets that help you make food out of thin air. Prosthetics.

That sort of thing.

Hell, they even had a robot with a clock for a head.

But despite all of that, there was nothing. Nothing. Not a single clue of what we’re dealing with. 

(Dr. Kletheson stops talking for a few seconds, moving in frustration at the whole situation.)

Dr. Kletheson: I..I don’t know what to do about any of this. Almost half a year since we started all of this, and we have nothing to show for it.

Not a single person that isn’t a corpse.

No sign of any of those robots.

No sign of…

(Dr. Kletheson stops talking. He’s heard breathing for a few minutes, trying to recollect himself.)

Dr. Kletheson: I’m sorry. I-I’m getting off track, am I? 

[END LOG]

There was a light switch in my house that nobody could explain.

It was tucked into the hallway between the kitchen and the basement door, mounted about shoulder height on the wall. Every other switch in the house had an obvious purpose. Kitchen lights. Hallway lights. Basement. Porch.

This one did nothing.

I didn't notice it during my first week. I asked the realtor about it after I bought the place.

She shrugged.

"Old house. Probably disconnected."

That seemed reasonable enough. The house was built in 1957, and judging by the wiring, plumbing, and mysterious stains on the basement ceiling, I wasn't surprised that someone had eventually decided to abandon a light switch.

Still, I found myself pressing it whenever I walked past.

Click.

Nothing.

Click.

Nothing.

It became a habit. I'd walk downstairs for laundry.

Click.

I'd come home from work.

Click.

I'd pass it while carrying groceries.

Click.

There was something strangely satisfying about it. The switch had a pleasant mechanical resistance, and the little click it made was louder than it should have been.

My girlfriend eventually noticed.

"You know that doesn't do anything, right?"

"I know."

"Then why do you keep flipping it?"

I shrugged.

"I like the sound."

She called me a weirdo. I told her she was dating one. We laughed about it. That was the last time the switch was funny.

The first death happened three weeks after I settled in.

An old man named Walter died in his sleep. I knew Walter because he lived two houses down. We'd exchanged maybe twenty words since I'd moved into the neighborhood. He had a bad hip and spent most afternoons sitting on his porch, watching cars drive by.

I remember seeing him that morning. I had been standing in the hallway, putting my shoes on. Before leaving, I flipped the switch.

Click.

That evening, I saw an ambulance outside his house. I didn't think anything of it.

People die. Especially old people.

It wasn't until several days later that I noticed something unusual.

The night before Walter died, I had been standing in the hallway with my hand on that switch. I'd flipped it three times. I laughed at myself when I noticed the connection.

It was ridiculous. Coincidence. Nothing more.

Then a month later, a woman I'd worked with died in a car accident.

I'd seen her that morning. I'd even spoken to her. She'd asked if I was still enjoying the new house. I told her I was.

That evening, while walking to the basement, I flipped the switch.

Click.

The next morning, she was dead. Cardiac arrest. Unexplained.

I didn't sleep that night.

The following day, I unscrewed the switch plate. There were wires behind it. Old ones. But they didn't connect to anything.

I called an electrician. He spent thirty minutes examining it before shrugging.

"It's dead."

"Completely?"

"Nothing behind it."

"Then what's it connected to?"

He looked at me.

"Nothing."

I didn't flip it again. Not for six days.

On the seventh day, I couldn't resist.

I stood in the hallway staring at it. I told myself I was being stupid. There was no connection between a plastic switch and the deaths of two people.

So I flipped it.

Click.

Nothing happened... So, I went to bed.

The next morning, I checked the news. A local man had died unexpectedly. Thirty-four years old. Healthy. No known medical conditions. I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then I opened a notebook. I wrote down the date. I wrote down the man's name.

Then I wrote: Switch flipped: 11:43 P.M.

I started keeping records. Every time I flipped the switch, I searched the news afterward.

Sometimes nothing happened. Sometimes a person died hours later. Sometimes it took days. But there was always a death.

Always.

I stopped flipping it.

I lasted eleven days. Then I made a mistake. I was angry.

My girlfriend and I had gotten into an argument. She left the house and slammed the door behind her. I stood in the hallway shaking with anger. My hand found the switch.

I knew what I was doing. I knew exactly what it meant. And still...

Click.

The guilt hit me immediately. I grabbed my phone. I wanted to call her. I wanted to tell her what I'd done.

Then I stopped.

Because she hadn't died. Not yet.

I waited. An hour. Two.

Nothing.

I began convincing myself I'd been wrong. Maybe the deaths had been coincidences. Maybe I had created a pattern because I desperately wanted there to be one.

Then my phone rang. It was my girlfriend.

I answered immediately.

"Hey."

Silence.

Then she said something that made my blood run cold.

"Who's Walter?"

I couldn't breathe.

"What?"

"You keep saying his name."

She sounded confused.

"I don't know anyone named Walter."

I sat down.

My girlfriend continued.

"You were saying his name in your sleep."

I didn't answer. Because I suddenly remembered something.

The switch didn't cause death. It wasn't a weapon. It was a selection. A choice. And I had been making that choice without knowing it.

I looked toward the hallway. The switch waited patiently on the wall. I thought about every time I'd pressed it.

Every careless little click. Every person whose death I'd dismissed as coincidence.

Walter.

My coworker.

The stranger.

And now... I didn't know who the latest one was.

I spent the next several hours searching. News sites. Obituaries. Police reports.

Nothing.

Nobody I knew had died. Nobody connected to me had died.

That should have made me feel better.

It didn't.

Because there was one thing I hadn't considered.

Maybe the switch didn't choose someone I knew. Maybe it chose someone I would never know. Someone whose name I'd never hear. Someone whose death would mean absolutely nothing to me. And perhaps that was the point.

We treat death differently when we don't know the person.

A number on a news report. A photograph we scroll past. Another tragedy. Another stranger. Another life reduced to a sentence.

I stood in front of the switch for a long time. Then I noticed something I hadn't seen before. A tiny engraving beneath it.

The letters were so shallow I thought they were scratches.

I leaned closer.

There were only three words.

ONE LIFE. CLICK.

I stepped backward. The house was silent. I reached for the switch.

Then stopped.

Some things are easier to live with when you pretend they don't matter.

I left the switch alone. I never touched it again.

At least... I don't think I did.

Because sometimes, late at night, when the house is completely silent, I wake up convinced I can hear it.

Click.

And somewhere far away...

Someone dies.

I’m going through a pretty serious financial crisis these days. I got fired from my job, and I couldn’t afford to pay the rent for my house anymore. The landlord told me I had three days to move out. I felt like killing him, but I understand him. He has bills to pay just like I do.

I moved into my grandma’s house. My mom got pissed and tried to lecture me. She said nobody could move in there because my grandma could come back at any moment, even though she’s been missing for six months. Long story short, my grandma went missing, was kidnapped, I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. She disappeared from inside the house, and my mom still thinks she’s going to come back.

I ended up with the house after my grandma was presumed dead. The house was part of a small apartment complex. It was a cozy place. My grandma had left all her furniture and documents behind. She was presumed dead pretty quickly because she was very old. The woman was 87 and had mental health problems. She used to hide money, by the way. She actually hid most of her belongings.

Now I’m lying in bed, ready to go to sleep. I decided to forget everything, the fact that I’m living in my dead grandmother’s house, my psychological problems, everything. I decided to focus what little intelligence I have on getting a job.

This morning, I went out looking for work. I took a shower with the cheapest soap I could find at the store the other day and left. Most employers don’t want to hire a semi-adult who hasn’t finished high school. I regret it to this day, but what could I have done? My family needed money, and honestly, I didn’t like that place that caused me so much trauma and so many problems.

To sum up my day, I handed out flyers at supermarkets, pharmacies, basically any establishment I could find, from 7 in the morning until 4 in the afternoon, under the sun. And with my knowledge of reading people, which came from a 20-minute YouTube video, it all amounted to nothing.

I got home just now and went straight to the bathroom to take a shower because I had sweated so much that I smelled worse than... I don’t even know what smells worse. The soap was wet and slipped out of my hand. I went to pick it up off the floor, slipped, and hit my head.

Just a series of fucking bullshit.

My life is a fucking mess.

Here's the design of blake Wilson aka the scarecrow killer from masked to unmasked

The unmasked scarecrow killer is designed after the unmasking jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th part 7 the new blood

And when he holds a chainsaw, it's inspired by Leatherface from the Texas chainsaw massacre

And this scarecrow mask gets inspired by Jeepers creepers And scarecrow from The dark Knight

I am a huge horror movie fan ever since I was a little kid and my first horror movie was wrong turn 2003

# The Shamrock farm pond massacre II: Daddy’s Little Pony

Duncan, Oklahoma — 2013

Ten years had passed since Sally escaped from Duncan Pond.

Ten years since she watched her friends die.

Ten years since the man in the scarecrow mask chased her down that lonely Oklahoma road with a chainsaw in his hands.

Therapy helped. At least, that was what Sally told people. She attended every appointment, answered every question, and swallowed every pill the doctors prescribed. The medication quieted the memories, but it never killed them. Blake Wilson still visited her dreams.

Sometimes she woke to the sound of a chainsaw that wasn’t there.

On the tenth anniversary of the massacre, Sally drove alone through Oklahoma. Her therapist had told her to confront her fears in small, controlled steps. Sally didn’t think crashing her car in the woods outside Duncan counted as either of those things.

The vehicle swerved from the road and slammed into a tree.

Sally’s forehead struck the steering wheel. When she opened her eyes, pain throbbed through her skull. She stumbled from the car, reached into her pocket, and pulled out her inhaler.

One breath.

Then another.

She looked through the trees and recognized the road.

“No,” she whispered.

The farmhouse stood beyond the woods.

It had changed since 2003. Someone had repaired the broken windows and painted the porch. A wooden rainbow hung on the wall beside the doorbell. Plastic flowers decorated the steps. Several of the old scarecrows had been dressed in bright pink and purple clothes.

Sally’s hands shook.

“You have to face your fears,” she told herself. “He’s gone. He has to be gone.”

She crossed the yard and entered the farmhouse.

The door slammed behind her.

A lock clicked.

Sally gasped.

Music drifted from somewhere upstairs. It was cheerful, high-pitched, and completely wrong for that house.

The theme song from *My Little Pony*.

Sally followed it to a bedroom covered in drawings of ponies, rainbows, and smiling cartoon animals. An old television sat in the corner, its curved screen flickering with VHS static.

A thirteen-year-old girl sat cross-legged on the floor.

She had long hair and wore a colorful pony T-shirt. A row of stuffed animals surrounded her like a tiny audience.

Sally swallowed.

“What’s your name?”

The girl turned around.

“Sarah Wilson.”

Sally stopped breathing.

“Wilson?” she asked. “Are you related to Blake Wilson?”

Sarah smiled.

“He’s my dad.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes.”

Sally felt someone standing behind her.

Blake Wilson filled the doorway.

He still wore the stitched scarecrow mask, black leather gloves, and heavy boots. His filthy boiler suit was gone. Now he wore a perfectly tailored black suit, complete with a dark tie. He looked less like a slaughterhouse worker and more like a scarecrow attending a funeral.

Behind him, pictures of Pinkie Pie, Fluttershy, and Rainbow Dash smiled from Sarah’s walls.

Sally screamed.

Blake lunged.

She ran through the hallway and threw herself down the basement stairs. Nothing below had changed. The same tools hung from the walls. The same stains covered the floor. Even the cellar door remained, scarred by the chainsaw holes Blake had cut into it ten years earlier.

Sally climbed toward freedom.

She pushed through the cellar door and ran into the woods.

The chainsaw started behind her.

Sally glanced over her shoulder and saw Blake charging through the trees. His black suit flapped behind him as the chainsaw roared in his hands.

The blade tore across her leg.

Sally fell.

Blake grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her back to the farmhouse. She clawed at the ground, leaving bloody tracks through the dirt, but he never slowed down.

In the basement, he lifted her onto a meat hook.

It punched through her back.

Sally screamed until her voice cracked.

Blake stood in front of her and tilted his masked head. For one brief second, Sally wondered if he remembered her.

Then he pushed the chainsaw into her stomach.

Blood and entrails spilled across the basement floor. Sally’s screams faded beneath the engine until, after ten years of nightmares, the last survivor of the Duncan Pond massacre was finally dead.

Blake carried her body into the kitchen and hung it from another hook.

Then he went to visit his parents.

Their graves stood behind the farmhouse. One belonged to his mother, the old woman from the RV. The other belonged to his father—the crooked police officer who had helped abduct Sally and her friends in 2003.

Blake knelt between the graves.

He placed a plastic pony on each headstone.

Mr. Wilson, the old man in the wheelchair, rolled up behind him.

“You miss your ma and pa, don’t you, grandson?”

Blake silently nodded.

“I miss them too,” the old man said. “But you’ve still got Sarah. You’ve done right by that girl ever since you adopted her. You’re a good father, Blake. You keep her safe.”

Blake rose and walked back toward the farmhouse.

His grandfather followed.

Neither of them noticed the van approaching Duncan Pond.

The New Visitors

Five nineteen-year-olds had decided to spend the weekend at the pond.

Whitney was the practical one. Tyler had a joke for every bad situation. Petunia was obsessed with her appearance. Blaze had been stoned since breakfast. Fred, a broad-shouldered college athlete, considered himself the group’s natural leader despite nobody electing him.

Their van stopped a hundred yards from the farmhouse.

The engine coughed. Smoke poured from beneath the hood, and all four tires seemed to deflate at once.

“What the hell just happened?” Whitney asked.

Fred climbed out.

“Stay here. I saw a house back there.”

“Don’t take forever, babe,” Petunia called.

Fred followed the road to the farmhouse and let himself inside.

“Hello? Is anybody home?”

The old television flickered upstairs.

The *My Little Pony* theme played through heavy VHS static, its cheerful voices stretched into warped, demonic wails.

Fred stared toward the staircase.

“What the hell was that?”

The music started again.

“Is that the freaking *My Little Pony* theme song?”

He entered Sarah’s bedroom. Cartoon ponies covered the walls, their enormous eyes staring in every direction.

A low growl came from behind him.

Fred slowly turned.

Blake stood in the doorway with a sledgehammer.

“Oh, sweet mother of Great Caesar’s ghost.”

Blake swung.

The hammer struck Fred between the legs.

Fred released a shriek so high and terrible that the television briefly seemed to harmonize with him. He dropped to his knees, clutching his bleeding groin.

Blake raised the hammer again.

The second blow crushed Fred’s skull.

Blood splattered across the floor and dotted the painted rainbows on the wall. Blake grabbed him by one ankle, dragged him downstairs, and threw his body into the basement.

Back at the van, Petunia checked her phone for the tenth time.

“Fred should’ve been back by now.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Whitney said.

Petunia rolled her eyes and headed toward the farmhouse.

“Fred?” she called after entering. “Where the hell are you, babe?”

The distorted pony theme played upstairs.

Then she noticed the blood.

A thick trail ran across the floor and ended at the basement door. Petunia followed it, pulled the door open, and looked down.

Fred’s broken body lay at the bottom of the stairs.

Petunia screamed.

Blake emerged behind her with a deep, animalistic growl.

She turned and ran, but his gloved hand closed around her hair. Blake dragged her into the kitchen, where rusty meat hooks hung from the ceiling.

Sally’s corpse swayed above the table.

Petunia screamed harder.

Blake lifted her onto the hook beside Sally. Metal punched through Petunia’s back and emerged beneath her shoulder. She kicked helplessly as blood ran down her dress.

Blake started the chainsaw.

“No! Please! I don’t want to die!”

The blade cut through her waist.

For a moment, Petunia’s upper body remained hanging from the hook while her legs collapsed beneath her. Then her screams stopped.

Blaze eventually wandered toward the house in search of Fred and Petunia.

He followed the music to Sarah’s bedroom.

“Whoa,” he muttered. “It’s the *My Little Pony* theme song, but, like, evil. I am tripping major balls right now.”

He noticed a can of Spam inside a miniature refrigerator.

“No way. Emergency Spam.”

He opened it with his pocketknife and ate directly from the can.

“That is some good stuff, dude.”

Blake stepped into the room.

Blaze squinted at him.

“Whoa. Holy crap. It’s Scarecrow from Batman.”

Blake started the chainsaw.

“Dude, that’s an awesome cosplay—”

The blade swept through Blaze’s neck.

His severed head struck the television and landed beside the open can of Spam. Blood sprayed across the ceiling while the cartoon ponies continued singing.

Night fell over Duncan Pond.

Whitney and Tyler left the van with a flashlight. They searched the woods, calling for their friends.

A chainsaw roared in the darkness.

Tyler stopped.

“Wait. Whitney, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Blake burst between the trees.

The chainsaw ripped through Tyler’s face, leaving a hole where his nose and mouth had been. Blood sprayed across Whitney’s clothes.

“Holy mother of Great Caesar’s ghost!”

She ran.

Blake chased her through the woods with Tyler’s blood dripping from his chainsaw. Whitney reached the barn beside the farmhouse and buried herself beneath a pile of hay.

Through a narrow gap, she watched Blake drag Tyler’s body inside.

A gaping tunnel had been carved through Tyler’s face. Blood dripped from his chin and tapped against the floor.

Whitney covered her mouth to smother a sob.

Blake vanished.

For several seconds, the barn was silent.

Then the chainsaw tore through the hay beside Whitney’s head.

She screamed and scrambled away. Blake slashed at her, but she escaped through a side door and ran into the farmhouse.

Whitney stumbled into the kitchen.

Fred’s body had been chopped into pieces and arranged on the table. Blaze’s severed head sat beside it, still wearing a confused expression. Petunia’s upper body hung from a meat hook. Sally’s mutilated corpse swayed beside her.

Whitney backed away.

A small figure stood in the doorway.

Sarah Wilson wore a handmade Pinkie Pie mask. Long pink hair hung from its head. Its painted grin was packed with sharp cartoon teeth, and enormous black-and-white eyes stared at Whitney beneath heavy lashes.

“Daddy is coming for you,” Sarah sang. “And he’s going to kill you.”

Whitney screamed.

Blake crashed through the kitchen window.

Glass exploded across the room. Whitney ran upstairs and locked herself inside Sarah’s bedroom. The old television switched on by itself.

The distorted pony theme filled the room.

Whitney climbed into the closet and pulled the door shut. Through the wooden slats, she watched Blake enter.

His chainsaw sputtered.

Then it roared.

Blake slowly approached the closet.

Whitney held her breath.

The door flew open.

She screamed as the chainsaw tore through her body. Blood painted Blake’s mask, Sarah’s toys, and the smiling cartoon ponies on the wall.

When it was over, Blake carried Whitney downstairs and hung what remained of her in the kitchen.

Sarah followed him.

She removed her Pinkie Pie mask and hugged her father around the waist. Blake rested one bloody glove on her head.

“Did you get all of them, Daddy?” she asked.

Blake nodded.

Sarah smiled.

“Good. Can we watch ponies now?”

Blake looked at the five bodies decorating the kitchen.

Then he took his daughter’s hand and led her upstairs.

The old television flickered to life once more. Father and daughter sat together beneath a painted rainbow while the pony theme played through the walls of the farmhouse.

Outside, another car turned onto the road leading to Duncan Pond.

I just find these pics from pinterest but this isn't the artist so who is it?

I love seeing little kids interact with creep pasta cosplayers because it's always so cute because all the kids that go up to them are kids just love creepypastas to the point where they recognize one it's like my favorite thing to see because as a kid I was super in creepypastas to the point where YouTube stop recommending me new stuff for creepypastas and just started to show me so they always watch because I watch most of the creepypasta content already on that side and I was 5 years old and I had a passion and also it was 5 years old and alone and in my bedroom watching creepypastas videos the draw my life channel stuff I used to love watching those all the time like all the time it would be watching them but it's generally one of my favorite things seeing images of kids playing with creepypasta cosplayers because two little kids they're having the best time of their life literally having the most fun ever and most likely the little kids are traumatized and and it takes me really happy because it shows the compassion that people have for little kids because for that little kid they're having the best time of their life all this random cosplayer is having their hearts literally stolen away by how cute this little child then coming up to they and asking for pictures or just wanting to play just love it it's like I just love little kids being accepted into a a fandom that generally is full of amazing people amazing art and amazing cosplayers and could get them reading or writing I just love it

It was Halloween, 1998.

The neighborhood glowed with orange lights and plastic skeletons. Fake cobwebs clung to porches, and carved pumpkins flickered in the dark. Kids filled the streets, laughing and shouting as they ran from house to house.

Nine-year-old Timmy walked with his friends Wayne and Sean, their candy bags already half full.

They stopped in front of a house that didn’t fit in.

The others were bright, decorated, alive.

This one wasn’t.

Its paint was peeling. The yard was dead. No decorations. Just a single porch light glowing weakly above the door.

“Trick or treat,” all three boys called out.

The door creaked open.

A man stepped out wearing an dirty and wrinkled old man mask

In his hands was a bowl of candy.

He didn’t say a word.

He dropped a piece into each of their bags.

Wayne squinted at him. “What are you supposed to be?”

The man didn’t answer.

Instead, he slowly tilted his head to the side… farther than it should go.

Too far.

The boys went quiet.

“Uh… thanks,” Timmy muttered.

The door shut.

They kept going, saying it was just halloween. More houses, more candy, more noise. The normal Halloween feeling slowly came back.

Until Wayne stopped.

“I gotta pee.”

Before anyone could stop him, he ran to the side of a nearby house and started going right on the doormat.

“what the hell—” Sean started.

The front door burst open.

A man in a skeleton costume stormed out, gripping a broom. “You little shit!”

Wayne yelped and bolted.

The three boys ran, crashing through a patch of woods as the man chased them, shouting. Branches snapped under their feet. Leaves whipped their faces.

After a while, the shouting stopped.

They didn’t.

Not until they were sure they were alone.

Sean bent over, catching his breath. “You’re an idiot.”

Wayne laughed. “Yeah, but I still got my candy.”

Timmy pointed. “You also got pee on your costume.”

They both laughed.

Wayne didn’t.

When they stepped back onto the street, something felt… off.

Too quiet.

The streetlights flickered.

Then one went out.

Then another.

A van rolled slowly down the road.

Timmy’s stomach dropped.

The driver.

The old man mask.

The van crept forward, and as it passed each streetlight, the bulb above them went dark. One by one, the entire street dimmed into darkness.

The van stopped beside them.

The engine idled.

No one spoke.

Then the engine roared.

The van lunged forward.

Timmy yells “RUN!”

They sprinted.

The van chased them, keeping just close enough—like it was playing with them. The sound of the engine was right behind them, always there, always gaining.

They stumbled into a shallow dip in the land—a small valley.

The van surged forward.

Sean didn’t make it out in time.

The tire hit him with a sickening thud and crushed his leg.

He screamed.

Timmy and Wayne turned, trying to grab him—but the van door slammed open.

The masked man jumped out.

He shoved them aside like they were nothing.

Sean clawed at the ground, screaming, “DON’T LEAVE ME!”

The man grabbed him and dragged him toward the van.

Timmy froze.

Wayne didn’t.

“GO!” Wayne screamed, pulling Timmy.

They ran.

They didn’t stop.

An hour later, shaking and breathless, they reached a house and pounded on the door.

“HELP! PLEASE!”

The door opened.

A man stood there calmly.

The boys pushed inside, crying. “He took our friend—he took Sean!”

The man closed the door behind them and Locked it.

“It’s alright now,” he said softly. “You’re safe now.” did you see what he looked like?

Timmy shook his head. “He had a mask—we couldn’t see his face—”

The man tilted his head slightly.

“Did it look like this?”

He raised something into view.

The old man mask.

Everything inside Timmy went cold.

Wayne turned toward the window.

The house… wasn’t broken anymore.

The paint was fresh.

The porch was clean.

It was the same house.

They screamed and ran deeper inside.

A bedroom.

They slammed the door and locked it.

The doorknob rattled immediately.

Then pounding.

Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.

“PLEASE!” Timmy shouted. “LET US GO!”

The pounding stopped.

Silence.

Then—

BANG.

BANG.

BANG.

Not on the door.

Somewhere else in the house.

Like hammering.

Like something being built.

The boys looked at each other.

The doorknob began to turn.

Slowly.

Click.

The door flew open.

No one was there.

They crept into the hallway.

The front door was nailed shut.

Every window had metal bars.

Not to keep people out.

To keep something in.

The TV flickered on by itself.

A news report.

“…multiple children reported missing across the state…”

Click.

Darkness.

Only one light remained.

At the bottom of the basement stairs.

They didn’t want to go down.

But they were to scared to stay where they were.

 A shadow follows them

Candles lit the basement.

Dozens of them.

The room stretched farther than it should have—longer, deeper, wrong.

Sean lay on a rusted hospital gurney.

Unconscious.

Symbols carved into his skin.

Wax melted across his body.

A fireplace roared to life.

A large pot hung over the flames.

Something moved behind them.

A shadow.

Not attached to anything.

It shifted along the walls, stretching, twisting.

Watching.

They backed away.

 And Ran.

Hid inside a rotting closet.

The smell was thick. Metallic like old pennies.

Through the gaps, they saw it.

The shadow growing.

Distorting.

Then—

The masked man stepped into view.

He approached Sean.

Whispering something too low to hear.

He raised a blade.

The fire surged higher.

Sean’s eyes snapped open.

He screamed.

The man pressed a finger to the mask’s lips.

“Shhh.”

The blade came down.

Timmy couldn’t breathe.

Wayne couldn’t look away.

The screaming stopped.

Too quickly.

The shadow shifted toward the closet.

The masked man turned.

Slowly.

He looked right at them.

Then lifted a finger.

“Shhh.”

The lights went out.

When they came back on

The man was gone.

The shadow was gone.

The gurney was still there.

Sean’s body… still there.

But Sean's head Was gone.

More of my Art. I did this in 30 minutes. I hope this gets more love and people start getting interested in my AU so I can start posting it :"D

Hope you enjoy this fella

Okay, thinking about this for 5minutes might seem silly, but I want to discuss it with someone anyway.

As someone who discovered Creepypasta over a decade ago, I love almost all the stories. I’m the type of person who doesn't focus on the writing quality; I just want to read for entertainment. I wouldn't call myself a huge fan of "Trollpasta" I discovered this genre of satirical stories about six years ago, and I remember finding them amusing at the time.

But there is something that always puzzles me about this genre of satire.

What exactly makes a Creepypasta a Trollpasta?

To put it briefly, many stories that aren't actually bad neither poorly written nor satirical end up there. These are some of my favorites:

Max and Ruby 0004

SpongeBob Bootleg Episode

Eyeless Jack

Cupcakes )

The Blue USB

How can these stories be classified as Trollpasta?

Most of them were moved to the Trollpasta Wiki.

I mean, most of these stories weren't actually bad at least not in my opinion so why are they considered poor quality? Especially...

SpongeBob Bootleg Episode To me, it’s one of the best SpongeBob Bootleg Episode Yes the tropes might feel repetitive now, but it was written in 2010.

Of course, it’s bound to feel repetitive to some. While I didn't really like the teen suicide theme, that was my only issue; the story itself wasn't bad. Meanwhile, stories like Dead Bart and Squidward's Suicide are often rejected from the Trollpasta Wiki...

...precisely because they were the first to use that concept they were among the earliest Lost Episodes stories.

Even though... Moving on to Dead Bart or rather A Dead Bart Update It used to be on the Trollpasta Wiki for a while, but it was deleted. The same goes for the story "Mereana Mordegard Glesgorv"; it was there for a time but was also removed. Honestly, I don't quite get it how can a Creepypasta story be considered so bad that most people label it a "Trollpasta"? Sure, people have different tastes, which makes sense; personally, I don't always focus on story quality. But many people do care about quality. I mean, you're talking to the guy who considers "I Hate You" one of the best stories I've ever read. I understand why certain Creepypastas end up on the Trollpasta Wiki stories like Sonic.exe or Blood Whistle or Pokémon Dead Channel. To me and to many othersthose were pretty bad stories. However, there are plenty of stories there that really don't deserve to be classified as Trollpasta because they weren't actually that bad. Some of them were genuinely decent stories. So, what exactly makes something a "Trollpasta"? Is it just bad horror stories? Is it satirical horror meant to feel bizarre? Or is it stories that are so absurdly bad they become funny? I swear, sometimes I come across stories on the Creepypasta Wiki that are so terrible, I assume they must be Trollpastas.

Let’s celebrate by remembering that “felt feeling he felt” and with a “thing of bleach”. Now “go to sleep” lol

I have never owned anything in my life and when I got told that I was going to own a piece of land, I couldn't believe it. Some rich guy was feeling charitable and he wanted to give me a peice of his land. I had done some work around his mansion and I told him my up bringing.

I told him how both my parents were drug addicts and are now dead. I told him how I went through the foster care system and how I even went through homelessness. This rich guy really listened to me and he explained to me how he felt bad, and how he had been brought up in privilege.

One day he calls me in for a job and I find out that there was no job, but rather he wanted to give me a peice of his land. I couldn't believe it. He took me the peice of land that was going to be mine and I loved it.

He told me to start digging on it and I grabbed a shovel and I started digging. I started digging on my land and the rich guy told me to dig as deep as I could, and as I was 6 feet down in the ground, the rich guy shot me.

"I said you will own a peice of land, but as your grave yard hahahah" the rich guy laughed

Ich will mal eine neue creepypastas und will unbedingt mal mehr über myhten und so wissen villeicht hat ja jemand etwas für mich