Fandom

Creepypasta Wiki

Comments2

Help Me Focus (Or, What Should I Write Next)

Ad blocker interference detected!


Wikia is a free-to-use site that makes money from advertising. We have a modified experience for viewers using ad blockers

Wikia is not accessible if you’ve made further modifications. Remove the custom ad blocker rule(s) and the page will load as expected.

I haven't finished a story in quite a long time (not counting the new holiday classic JEFF THE KILLER LEARNS THE MEANING OF CHRISTMAS), but I do have a lot of them in the works/ideas for stories. So, I figured I'd throw it out there and see which, if any, people are the most interested. I'll also post some snippets if any are available, though they may not be very excited.

The Games We Play- A man wrecks his car, rolling it into a wooded valley. As he's walking to try to find help, he comes across a small cabin filled with strange people who insist he play a weird, confusing and sometimes painful game before they help him.

Tyrma- Depending on how this turns out, I may not post it. It's a story about a pirate crew who ends up on an island outside of our world. The island is inhabited by cruel people ruled by dark gods. To survive means to go native.

Excerpt:

“We were bound for Barbados. There are no maelstroms along that path, but by the Devil there was then. Never such a one has been seen, it cut right to the bottom of the sea. I know it did, I stared at it as we were spun 'round and round, riding the edges of the whirlpool like a kitten in a windmilling bucket. We were dead. Some men were already overboard, tossed over the gunwales. I watched them fall. Some were sucked into the vortex to be drowned, some I saw smashed against the floor of the ocean. The lucky ones burst like melons, the others were twisted, their bones jutting at all the wrong angles, their skin separated from the muscle so they looked like collapsed tents.

“We should have been dead, but it was like someone ripped the pages from a book. On one page we were descending to our death, on the next we were rightside on the water. The men who had fallen were gone and that was the only sign that we had ever been in danger. Before us, in the place of open sea was an island.”

The House of Prophets- A man is crippled in an accident and is found by members of a cult (SHUT UP I LIKE THE SECONDARY WORLD BUILDING OF CREATING RELIGIONS). He finds that their place of worship isn't a church, but more like a museum of disturbing human oddities with unsettling powers.

Excerpt: He opened his eyes, head lolled to the left, to see three pairs of unfocused books that looked more like nine and just as many gun muzzles pointed down into the snow. His body hurt so bad he couldn't tell where the pain radiated from. Shallow breaths were all he could take in and even a twitch sent him to the edge of unconsciousness. There was a mask of filth on his face that smelled like vomit, whiskey, blood and snow.

“He's alive,” a voice said from above him.

“You're surprised?” another asked.

“A little. I mean, look at him, dad.”

“The third prophet said that today a bird would fly into our window, but its neck would not break,” said a new voice, gruff and harsh with age.

Lord Love-a-Duck's Grand Parade- I don't really know where any of this is going. All I have is that it's a local '70s kid's show and the theme song goes like this:

It's Lord Love-A-Duck's Grand Parade!

Find your pep and fall in step,

With this glorious cavalcade!

Don't be late, we won't wait,

The elephant's already left the gate,

For Lord Love-A-Duck's Grand Parade!

In Lord Love-A-Duck's Grand Parade,
(The next three lines are currently unavailable)

It stretches on for miles!

It's Lord-

Love-A-Duck's

Grand---

Pa---rade-----

QUACK!

The Winter's Devil- This is another one that depending on how it turns out might not get posted. It's about a town where every winter they're terrorized by a monster that comes with the snow. At night, doors are pounded on, voices call to be let in and anyone who goes out into the snow is never seen again. Of course, this about someone who goes out into the snow). Inspired by the old legend of the devil's footprints.

The Movies My Father Made- This was actually the first creepypasta I started writing. It's currently. . .eight pages, I think? And that's only half done. I need to slice the planned content quite a bit, otherwise it will get very repetitive. It's about a college student whose father dies (YEAH, I WRITE ABOUT MEN AND THEIR WEIRD FATHER'S A LOT, SHUT UP). His father was involved in (CAN YOU GUESS?) a cult. Among the things he leaves his son, are a bunch of home movies. The movies reveal the disturbing nature of the cult and reveals unsettling truths to the young man.

Excerpt:

The Fifth Tape: Homonculus

Color. Sound.

Two men stand at opposite ends of the frame facing forward. They're wearing the masks and hooded robes I've come to expect. Everything about them is statue grey and even their masks are the same passive expressions you'd see on carved granite. They hold censers, the one on the left in his left hand, the one on the right in his right. Lazy smoke floats upwards straight, except for tiny switchbacks, and slow, slower than I've ever seen smoke rise. The men never move. I don't think they ever blink.

In front of them is a low stone table. On it is a little metal ring being held up by three curved legs and what can only be described as a chalice. Dingy silver studded with fake looking rubies and community theater flourishes. A wooden chair sits in the center.

The soundtrack is a hushed droning chant that has devolved from words into syllables being rolled around by a jutting then retracting jaw.

A few minutes of this, then a woman walks on screen and stands in the middle in front of the chair. Her bright blonde hair is up in a tight spiraling bun. Her white dress is crude, simple, little more than cut cotton and stitching. Her face is as blank as the masks of the men at her sides. A man comes in after her carrying a clay jug which he sets on the table. What's up, Pops? Don't you look sharp in your vest and stiff white shirt. You look like a Victorian doctor who's taken off his coat and is just about ready for the examination. Honestly, I'm just glad you're wearing clothes. Like all the others, he's expressionless as he stands behind the woman. He takes the woman's dress in his hands and rips it. It tears like paper and the rags are tossed aside with as much regard. With one hand he pulls out whatever pins are holding her hair up and it spills halfway down her back. All this and what comes next he does while staring directly into the camera.

He picks up the jug and pours a dark, chunky liquid into the chalice. She picks it up and tries not to let it show how bad it smells. After she forces it down she sets the cup on the table and my father moves it next to the jug. Dad puts his hands on her shoulders and gently guides her down to sit. He withdraws his hands and everybody waits.

If it weren't for the smoke slithering out of the censers I would have thought the frame was frozen. I almost grabbed the remote and fast forwarded, but then I see it. Her skin's turning grey. It was drying up and receding, shriveling. Her hair got longer as the scalp sunk and her lips pulled back like stage curtains to show teeth which got longer and longer as the gums withered. The skin got blacker and blacker and dryer and dryer. A flaky, dusty carbon statue with life-like eyes, a brittle wig, fence post teeth. Through all the degeneration the expression remained.

I hear a soft sound and can just barely make out a cloud of dust billowing up from under the table. Her legs. She begins to slip forward and the avalanche starts. Her face slides down in single sheet. It hits her chest and that just crumbles. Finally, she falls, smashing against the table. A rolling wall of dust blankets the screen. It's awhile before the dust settles, but when it does that's all that's left of the woman. Pops takes a small hand broom from off frame and sweeps the woman onto the chair. He sets the broom down, then reaches a white-gloved hand into what must be a sizable pile of the disintegrated woman. He pulls out an egg, held between his thumb and forefinger and shows it to the camera.

Dad sets the egg on the little tripod. The camera zooms in tight. This time I'm not tempted to fast forward even though this is the longest wait yet. The egg shakes, just a little, then a little more. A short hairline crack develops on the side. Whatever's inside is pounding on it, pushing it up by fractions of centimeters each time. I feel a little sick when I see fingers squeeze through the crack and give the shell a push. Yolk or amniotic fluid dribbles down the side of the egg. Cracks are appearing and spidering quickly through out. A tiny foot kicks through the bottom while two hands tear at the shell. When the hole is wide enough and the sub-human face covers in slime appears I can see the exhaustion. It breaks a little more off then crawls through the opening. As it tries to get its legs over, the shell collapses and the thing falls to the table with a wet smack. I surprise myself when I gasp and with the relief I feel when it stirs. Its legs are weak and new, they wobble as it raises itself up.

It's human, but less than. A dirty knock-off of our biology. All around lumpier, especially in the face where the forehead hangs over the eyes and the cheeks bulge. It's hairy, it's hard to tell with it all matted down from egg stuff, but there's an obvious sprinkling of hair all over. It looks around, taking in the giant's world. On shaky legs, it begins to trek across the stone table. As the camera pulls out, I notice the bright blonde hair. Dirty and tangled, but even under the slick fluid it shines as it covers half her back.

My father watches her. I can only just barely make her out, moving slowly west to the edge of her world. Dad's eyes flick up and meet mine.

End tape.

Black Dog and Goat Related PastasEdit

Keter by Horton Jupiter and His Swingin' Band- This is only tangentially related. On the day of his mother's funeral, a man goes to confront his absentee father. His father explains why he's been such a poor parent, attributing it to an obscure jazz record that gives the listener strange and upsetting visions.

Hollywood Babylon (or, Blue Movies)- Set in the late '40s, a member of the same cult as The Black Dog and Goat recruits a pornography director to create a religious epic about his beliefs. The director tries to cope with the terrible things he's witnessing using booze and drugs, but finds it only intensifies in the world he's been introduced to.

The Black Cow- A story about Vicky's captivity as The Black Cow, wife of The Black Goat. Set five years after TBDaG

Also on Fandom

Random Wiki