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Never Use a Voice Recorder While You Sleep

Never Use a Voice Recorder While You SleepReading Time: 16 minutes 

I am a chronic sleep talker. Always have been. Everyone who’s ever slept in the same house as me will tell you that. My parents, siblings, friends, and especially my exes. They’re the ones who got an ear-full. It was something we’d laugh about in the morning, because most of what I’d say would be incoherent or nonsensical. Some of my famous lines included, “There’s too many helicopters in the pool!” and “My balloon’s on the wrong foot.” It never bothered anyone around me; my friends and family pretty much just got a kick out of it.

One day at work, the subject of sleeping came up. My co-workers threw stories back and forth about some of their weirdest dreams. I chimed in with my sleep-talking antics. Everyone laughed as I raddled off some of the crazier shit I’ve said while zonked. One of my co-workers, Bill, really busted a gut. After he finished hyper-ventilating, he told me that I should set up a voice recorder while I sleep so I can play it back at work every morning. Honestly, I didn’t think it was a bad idea.

That night, I downloaded a decent voice recording app on my phone and placed it on my nightstand before I went to bed. Being single and living alone, I had no way of knowing what I said in my sleep anymore, so I was looking forward to hearing what it would pick up. It would be a humorous way to start my otherwise dull mornings.

For two months I recorded a lot of great stuff. One night in particular, I kept screaming, almost as if I was running from something in my dream, but after a few minutes I said, “Bad fridge!” I couldn’t stop laughing at that one. Neither could my co-workers when I showed them.

Eventually, the app picked up something unsettling. Listening to the audio for any trace of funny banter I might find, I heard a loud bang. It sounded like a door being slammed shut with great force. Hearing that, my heart sank. I wondered if an intruder had made their way into my home.

My house is a small cottage on the outskirts of town. I was able to get it at a great price due to its location and age. As such, some of its components are antiquated. I knew after hearing the recording that the only two doors sturdy enough to make that loud of a thud were that of the attic and the basement.

Basements and attics have always freaked me out. Never liked to go near them as a kid, and I still don’t as an adult. They kind of terrify me. The ones in my house, even more so. Something about them being old made them all the more sinister.

Despite my fear, I had to make sure no one was in the house. I got up out of bed and headed straight for the basement, as that was the door closest to my bedroom. I hesitantly opened the door and descended into my home’s depths. I was nervous, but I was desperate for some peace of mind.

The basement… was empty.

I quickly ran back up to the first floor and proceeded to journey upstairs. Once I reached the attic door, I froze. As much as basements make my skin crawl, I find attics to be far worse. Maybe it was because they were always a big unknown to me. I had only ever been in an attic once my whole life and that was to help my dad unload some Christmas decorations. Even then, I was spooked.

Because of my phobia, I installed a dead bolt on the door when I moved in. It sounds foolish, but hey, it helps me sleep at night. Looking at the door, I noticed that the dead bolt was still locked. An intruder could have gone in and then re-locked it on their way out, but at least I knew they weren’t in there anymore. This was my excuse not to go inside. I went back downstairs and put the noise out of my mind.

Forgetting all about the loud bang, I continued to record at night in the hopes of catching more sleep-talking. I did, but it wasn’t of the hilarious, absurd variety. The night after I recorded the noise, the only thing I said the whole night was, “Where are you?” I didn’t pay it any mind, as I’ve said similar things in my sleep before. It wasn’t until I heard the following night’s recording that I became alarmed. I said the same thing, “Where are you?”, only this time it was followed by a strange, static sound. This was odd, but I chalked it up to coincidence and a phone malfunction.

I quickly discovered that neither of these things were to blame.

Every night after, I got almost the same exact thing. I would ask, “Where are you,” and then I’d get some sort of static interference. I couldn’t explain it, and it left me rather frazzled. I showed my co-workers, but they weren’t able to offer me any insight. I thought about not recording anymore, but not knowing would make me more uneasy. I wanted to get to the bottom of what was going on.

And then, one night, I caught something different. Listening to the audio intently, I heard two distinct things. During a two minute stretch in the recording, there were footsteps in the background, almost as if someone was pacing. It was very faint, but it was most certainly there. The second thing I heard was me asking the same question, “Where are you,” only this time I received a response. It was a low whisper, but I could make out what it said.

“I’m upstairs.”


Deeply unnerved by my findings, I set up the app again the next night. I also took the liberty of setting up two digital cameras; one in my room, and one facing the attic door. After adjusting the light settings on each, I felt confident in my approach. I didn’t have time to deal with this bullshit, so I wanted nothing more than to get it sorted out, somehow. Unfortunately for me, it just wasn’t that simple.

I slept through the night, like normal, but I did have a weird dream.

In my dream, I was at home. I was sitting on my couch watching TV when I heard a scratching sound coming from upstairs. Naturally, I assumed it was mice, but as I sat there, the noise grew louder and louder. It eventually morphed into a horrendous knocking sound. That’s when I got up to investigate.

I made my way up to the attic door and the noises ceased. I stood there for a moment, expecting it to start up again, but it didn’t. Complete silence for what felt like a few minutes. Then, without warning, a loud clicking sound broke the tension. The deadbolt had unlocked itself. And that’s when I woke up to the sound of my alarm going off.

I immediately got up and gathered the cameras, as well as my phone. I was eager to see if they’d captured anything. They did, but it only left me with more questions.

Halfway through the audio on both my phone and the camera in my room, I heard once again, “Where are you?” There was no response and no static, but there was a loud bang, just like the one I’d caught before, only more distinct. It was most certainly a door being slammed shut. I quickly grabbed the second camera and began looking through the footage. The attic door never opened. Instead, I heard the bang in the background, ever so faintly. Given the volume in each of the clips, it seemed as though it might have been the basement door. After skimming through the rest of the footage and finding nothing else out of the ordinary, I decided to check the basement again.

With a mixture of nerves and adrenaline, I ran over to the basement door and swung it open. I hurried downstairs and turned the light on. I was fed up and a little annoyed, thinking someone was somehow having a laugh at my expense. However, when the room lit up, I was greeted with the familiar sight of an unfurnished basement. It was completely empty. No intruder and no answers.

Frustrated, I went off to work and tried to keep my mind off of my odd dilemma. That proved to be a difficult task. I kept playing out different scenarios in my head during the work day, but nothing made sense. The only logical, though somewhat illogical explanation that I could come up with, was that I was being harassed by a spirit. I didn’t want to give in to that notion, but I was running out of ideas.

I tried to talk with my co-workers again, in the hopes that they would tell me it was nothing to worry about. Instead, I received the opposite. One of my co-workers told me to call the cops and have them look through the house for signs of a break-in. Another told me I should stay at a friend’s house. Bill told me to abandon the house and run for the hills. He was only joking, but it didn’t make me feel any better about the matter.

Things took a turn for the bizarre when I arrived home that day.

Opening the front door to the cottage, I stepped in and set my jacket down on the couch. I then plopped down in an attempt to unwind. Immediately after sitting, I heard the bang again. It was clear as day. It was the same sound from the audio and footage, but this time I was hearing it in person.

I jumped up and looked straight ahead at the basement door. You could see it from the couch – it had been in my line of sight the entire time. Though I hadn’t been looking directly at it, I was fairly certain it hadn’t moved. Still, the bang definitely came from that direction. Spooked but curious, I decided to check it out.

I walked over cautiously and examined the door. There was no indication that it had been slammed shut. The wood around the door was pristine, and the floor below had not been scraped. I opened it and trotted down the old, creaky stairs to investigate the basement for a third time. After reaching the bottom, I turned the light on. I expected to see nothing, just as I had before. While scanning the room left to right, nothing is mostly what I saw. After doing a double take, however, I realized that something was amiss.

Off, in the center of the far wall, was a door. This sent a chill up my spine. My basement had no doors. That I was sure of. I knew this before purchasing the place almost a year ago, when I first took the grand tour. I also didn’t see the door when I went down there that morning or the other day. It didn’t make a lick of sense.

I walked towards it, bewildered. I wasn’t sure of the door’s origins, but I knew that it had to be the cause of the sounds I’d been hearing. There was no other explanation. As I approached the impossibility before me, I realized something that made my skin crawl. I recognized the wood, the design, and the deadbolt.

It was the attic door.

I didn’t want to open it, for fear of what might be lurking behind. Instead, I ran upstairs and checked to see if the attic door was still there; the actual one. It was indeed. I then ran back downstairs into the basement, only to find that the door down there had vanished. Had I merely imagined its presence?

Thinking I had gone completely mad, I went back upstairs and sat down on the couch. My mind was running haywire, trying to comprehend things, but it eventually gave in to its own weariness. I ended up taking a short nap, and that’s when I had another weird dream.

This dream was similar to the one I had before. I was sitting on the couch, watching TV, when I heard a scratching noise. The only difference was, it was coming from the basement, rather than the attic. It too progressed and turned into a voracious knocking that I couldn’t ignore. As such, I got up from the couch and went downstairs to put a stop to it.

In my dream, the basement was empty. No mysterious door in sight. That, and the knocking and scratching ceased upon my entrance. At my wit’s end, I went back upstairs. The sound then returned with a vengeance, only this time, it was coming from the attic again. I ran up there as fast as I could, but the noise stopped. I waited. Following the narrative of my previous dream, the deadbolt clicked, signaling that the door had unlocked itself. Unlike my previous dream, however, the door opened up a bit and a hand reached out from within. That’s when I woke up.

I wrote the first dream off as the byproduct of an over-stressed mind, but to have it reoccur? That wasn’t ordinary, at least not for me. Between the door in my basement and my strange nightmares, I was a mess. Both perplexed and frightened, I called my friend John.

John is an eccentric fellow. He’s the kind of guy who believes in UFOs, ghosts, conspiracy theories, the occult, and other things of that nature. Not only does he believe in them, but he studies them. He knows more about Roswell than I do about myself. Being a skeptic, I always thought the massive amount of information he retained was borderline useless. I changed my mind about that after seeing my attic door pop up in my basement. If anyone could help, or at least steer me in the right direction, it was him.

I spoke with John for a couple of hours. He was ecstatic after hearing about my experience. He began raddling off all of the different things he thought it might indicate. Some of his theories included a wormhole, a gateway to the other side, and even a glitch (one of the many theories that he subscribes to is that the world we live in is a simulation). He told me that he couldn’t be completely certain about what it was without seeing it for himself. Unfortunately, he lives too far away to just stop by and visit.

Instead of leaving me empty-handed, John gave me some advice on what to do next. After telling him about the voice I captured and the dreams I’d been having, he started leaning towards the ghost idea. He thought it might be trying to communicate with me. Because of this, he told me I should set up the voice recorder in the basement and ask the spirit some questions. I could play back the recording after and listen for the voice. John said that I should do it in the attic as well.

Though weary of his methods, I told him I’d try it out. After all, I couldn’t just sit around and expect the situation to resolve itself. I didn’t like the idea of going up into the attic by myself, but I needed to do something.

After getting off the phone, I immediately put his plan into action. The basement would have to be first, as I was still apprehensive about going upstairs.

I set up the app and put my phone on the basement floor. I proceeded to ask questions, leaving enough space in between for someone… or something to answer. I asked for normal things like its name, its age, and what it wanted. After roughly five minutes of interrogation, I stopped the recording and played it back.

I must’ve listened to my own voice a million times, hoping for anything audible to present itself. To my dismay, I caught nothing of the sort. It seemed as though the attic would indeed have to be my next venture.

I reluctantly climbed the stairs up to the attic door. I looked at it for a few moments, took a deep breath, and unlocked the deadbolt. I opened the door and braced myself.

There was nothing there, save for the previous owner’s belongings.

When I first purchased the house, I had to do a little bit of renovating, so to speak. The owner before me had no cable, electricity, or proper plumbing. On top of that, they left all of their stuff behind. I had most of it removed, but left everything that was in the attic. I had no need for the space, and I didn’t want to put any more money into emptying the house than I had to.

I perused through the attic’s wares for a bit, curious as to what it was that I technically owned. Some of the interesting items that stood out to me were an old postcard from Paris, a strange-looking dog collar, and a book on witchcraft. The fear set in while going through the contents of my new collection. The angled ceiling, antiques, and large window overlooking my yard did give the place a dose of charm, but I still didn’t like attics.

I quickly hit the record button on the app and set my phone on the floor. I asked the same questions as before, but didn’t leave as much space in between as I really wanted to get the hell out of there. Before stopping the recording, I had a thought. Perhaps the spirit would respond if I asked it the same question that I did in my sleep.

I cleared my throat and asked, “Where are you?”

After asking the final question, I stopped the recording and played it back. It sounded almost identical to the one I’d recorded in the basement, complete with a lack of answers. That is, until the very end. After I asked the last question, I heard a familiar, low whisper.

“Behind you.”

After hearing this reply, I immediately turned around. There was nothing there. Despite this, I hightailed it downstairs. That eerie voice reinforced my phobia of attics and instilled in me an indescribable dread. I could no longer bear to be in that house by myself.

I called John again and begged him to help me out. I told him I’d give him the gas money for the 8-hour round trip. He was reluctant at first, knowing that he’d have to spend the night and call out from work the next morning. Curiosity got the best of him in the end. After much deliberation, he agreed to come over.

I waited for John in my car. While sitting there, I couldn’t help but examine my house. I began asking myself questions, like is it really haunted, do ghosts really exist, and my favorite, is this what my life has come to? Though the questions were speculative and rhetorical, I pretty much knew the answers. As I gazed towards the house in disappointment, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.

It was a silhouette, standing at the attic window.

Holy shit. What the fuck. What do I do?

Those were the only retorts that crossed my mind after seeing the shadowy figure. After a few moments of staring, the figure stepped back from the window, completely out of sight. I sat and pondered about it for a few minutes after its departure.

In a moment of bravery, I chose to go back in the house and up to the attic. Crazy, I know, but it’s my house, and I needed to show this thing that I wasn’t interested in playing its games – even if I was scared shitless. Besides, John would have my head if I didn’t follow the damned thing.

Feeling confident, but still shaky, I ventured up into the attic. I swung the door open without hesitation and waltzed in like I owned the place. After all, I did. The attic was void of any ghostly figures, but it did harbor the faint scent of candle wax. Unsure of how to proceed, I started talking in a loud and firm tone.

“This isn’t your house. I’m tired of your bullshit games, spirit. I demand that you leave at once!”

I knew this wasn’t going to work, but it was almost cathartic. I felt a hell of a lot better fighting back. I walked around the attic, satisfied with my rant, thinking that I had actually conquered my fear. My smug demeanor wouldn’t last more than a few moments.

Soon after I spoke, a gust of wind blew through the attic and hit me like a bus. Nearly knocked me over. I knew it was the ghost’s doing. I tried to stand my ground, but I was pretty damn frightened. I watched as everything around me flew about, creating a tornado of mementos and keepsakes. I was about to retreat, when I noticed something that hadn’t budged an inch. It was the book on witchcraft that I’d seen before. Upon noticing it, the wind inexplicably stopped and everything fell to the floor. I walked over to the book, curious as to why it remained stationary. As I did, it opened up on its own. It was startling, but I somehow sensed no malice. I was coming around to the fact that the ghost might really be trying to communicate with me.

The page the book landed on was a spell. The whole thing was in Latin, but from what I could make out, it had something to do with growing plants. Confused, I reached out to the ghost for help.

“What do you want me to do?”

After asking the question, the attic door slammed shut. I thought for a moment and gathered that it wanted me to recite the spell in the attic. I was still confused, but somehow calm. It felt as though I was helping the spirit in some way.

Before I could read from the book, my phone went off. It was a text from John:

“So, so sorry. I can’t make it out there. My boss won’t give me the day off tomorrow and I’m not sure my car will make it there and back. It desperately needs new tires and I won’t be able to buy those until Friday. Give me a call back then and I’ll see what I can do. Good luck.”


Even though I wasn’t freaking out anymore, it was nice knowing that someone was on their way to my house, just in case things went sour. I didn’t like it, but I was on my own. I accepted this, and turned my attention back to the book. It was time to deliver the spell.

I cleared my throat and began reciting the text in the book. I took Latin in college, and although I didn’t retain all the information, I knew enough to make the proper pronunciations. Even still, I stumbled over my words during certain parts. Because of this, I had to restart a couple of times. I wanted to get it right, especially if it was truly what the ghost wanted.

After finishing the spell flawlessly (for the most part), the attic door opened. I walked out with the book in hand, wondering if everything was over. When I reached the bottom step and turned around the corner, it became quickly apparent that it wasn’t. The basement door was wide open.

I was in uncharted territory, taking orders from a ghost, but I hoped I was following along alright. Seeing the basement door ajar convinced me that I probably needed to recite the spell down there as well. I still wasn’t sure why, but it felt like this was the spirit’s will. As such, I obliged.

I walked down into the basement with the book and turned the light on. A quick glance around revealed that I was alone and that there was no door. I cleared my throat once again and began reciting the spell, word for word. Honestly, I was a little excited. It felt like I was doing something productive about my ghost problem, and that it might actually help put it to rest. This time, I got it right on the first try.

Upon finishing the spell in the basement, the house began shaking. When I say the house, I mean the whole house, basement and all. I ‘d never experienced an earthquake before, but it seemed like the only logical explanation for what was happening. It wasn’t until I looked around the room during the madness, that I realized it was the spell’s doing.

There, on the far wall, shaking with the rest of the house, was the attic door. I wondered if the spell had somehow summoned it, simultaneously causing the house to wobble. The tremor eventually stopped, and I was left with the door, lending credence to my theory. I waited for a few minutes, thinking the door would open, but it did not. It seemed that I would have to do that myself. I wasn’t too happy about it, but I’d come too far to back out now.

I gathered my wits and walked over to the door. I proceeded to swing it open, without fear, just as I had upstairs. Behind the door was a surprise.

It was the attic. The attic, upstairs. Everything was the same, only there was a man standing at the window. Hearing me open the door, he turned around. His eyes widened when he saw me. He ran so fast in my direction that I didn’t even have enough time to take more than a single step back. He rushed through the doorway and into the basement. He turned back around and slammed the attic door shut, making sure to lock the deadbolt. He turned to me, grabbed my shoulders, and looked me dead in the eye. I was baffled and scared for my life.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! Thank you so much!”

After expressing his thanks, the man let go of me and ran upstairs, but not before turning back around and offering me some advice.

“Whatever you do, don’t go in there!”

He gestured toward the attic door before bolting upstairs. I ran after him, wanting to ask some questions, but when I got upstairs, it was already too late. My front door was open, and I could see him running down the dirt road towards town.

And that was that. I’ve slept every night since then with no noises or paranormal issues whatsoever. I even set up the cameras and voice recorder a few times to make sure. They didn’t catch a damned thing. I don’t know what the hell happened, but I am sure of one thing. The man that came out from behind the attic door was no ghost. It was a living, breathing person.


Click HERE to find out more about the man in the attic.


CREDIT: Christopher Maxim

(Click HERE to check out Christopher Maxim’s book, How To Exit Your Body and Other Strange Tales)

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The Attic in the Basement

The Attic in the BasementReading Time: 16 minutes 

(A short film based on The Attic in the Basement, winner of Best Director in the BC Student Film Festival)


*NOTE: This creepypasta was originally published on the site in April of 2016. We are republishing the post because it has been edited and rewritten by the author. Enjoy.*


“Quiet down, back there!” I yelled whilst driving down an all too familiar road. My best friend and his girlfriend wouldn’t stop laughing loudly with each other, much like young couples do. I almost regretted bringing them, but I really didn’t want to go alone, and inviting one of those two love birds meant inviting the pair. They were a package deal. Lucky for me, the torturous sound of laughter would soon cease, as we were approaching our destination.

“We’re here,” I stated; less to point out our arrival, and more to shut the two of them up. I just wanted some peace and quiet so I could think clearly. I wasn’t exactly mentally prepared for what needed to be done.

My aunt’s old house was just as I remembered it; a rickety old cottage down a dead end road in the middle of nowhere, complete with woods, wildlife, and the welcoming smell of roses that she often planted near the stone walkway. That was when it finally hit me. While traversing that very walkway, smelling those very roses, I stopped dead in my tracks, tears welling up in my eyes.

“Are you okay?” My friend’s girlfriend asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. I just need a second.”

They looked concerned, but understood. What else would they expect of me coming back to my aunt’s house right after she died? Honestly, it felt a little weird. I may have been her favorite nephew, but after leaving me everything in her will, it seemed wrong to go out there so soon. The service was held just a day prior. I knew everything she had wasn’t much, and I knew I wasn’t really there to collect my inheritance, but I still felt bad – and at this moment, I felt even worse.

The memories I had of her were being dredged up with every step I took towards the front door. I hadn’t seen her since I was ten years old, but I could play every memory in my head like a movie. I was very close to her in those days. She might as well have been my mom. My actual mother cared for me, but she wasn’t loving in the way that my aunt was. I remember visiting her after school and being greeted with some cliché milk and cookies. Instead of watching television like a normal kid (she didn‘t own one), I would listen to my aunt play the piano for hours on end. We would sometimes go bird watching or work in the garden; things that I have not done or even thought of doing since. These are some of my most treasured memories; and just like treasure, I kept them locked up and hidden away for many years, until now. As I approached the door to the cottage, I stopped in my tracks once more.

“Seriously, are you okay?” My friend asked this time, seeming very concerned. He had never seen me like this before.

“I’m fine. Why don’t you two take that hike you were talking about? I’ll go on in and take a look around. You guys can meet me back at the car later.”

“If you say so…”

The two of them took off down a trail in the woods, and I was left standing there, looking at the house that I’d not seen in many years. The feeling that overcame me was so strange. It’s hard to put into words. It was more than grief, greater than sadness. I guess the best way to say it is that I missed her. It’s funny; if she could see me now, she probably wouldn’t recognize me. I’m tall, bearded, and wear glasses – almost the polar opposite of my appearance as a child. Thinking of this just made me more sad. She would never get to see the man I had become. With one last sigh of emotion, I marched on and reached for the handle on the front door.

My aunt didn’t have locks on her doors or windows. The house was constructed so long ago, that it wasn’t even built with them. She could have had some installed, but she didn’t feel she needed them out in the middle of nowhere. She brought it up one of the first times I stayed there, saying, “Trust the world, and it will set you free.” When I was a kid, hearing her say this made me feel safe, somehow. Being full grown and recalling this statement now, I find it very peculiar. But then again, that was my aunt for you; unpretentious and oblivious to the rest of the world around her. Honestly, I missed that part of her the most. All of these memories came back to me piece by piece as I pulled the door open. The bittersweet release I felt was interrupted when I saw the inside of the cottage.

Everything, and I mean everything, was exactly in its place. It was like I was a kid again, coming over after school to enjoy my aunt’s company. My memories were projected right in front of me like a nostalgic outburst of energy. I could see my aunt sitting at the piano, playing as she often would. I could see me, sitting there, eating some homemade cookies, listening intently to the music. I could see her again, cooking dinner in the kitchen as I sat on the couch reading one of her old books. I walked past these living recollections and went upstairs to see more.

I stopped quickly when I reached the top of the staircase. I realized that it only led to the attic. I had no interest in it, remembering that my aunt used it for storage, so I traveled back downstairs. I didn’t know what I was looking for, exactly; maybe just a little peace of mind to put my heart at ease. Maybe just something that would let me know without a doubt that my aunt passed away peacefully. In truth, I felt an immense amount of guilt being in that house again. Almost too much to bare.

When I was just shy of eleven years old, my parents moved out of state. This is when I stopped seeing my aunt. We kind of lost touch, especially seeing as she didn’t have any real means of communication out there – no phone, no computer – she didn’t even have a mailbox, and the nearest post office was over twenty miles away. Being older now, I could have easily paid her a visit, and I am sure she would have loved to have seen me. I guess I just thought she would always be there. Unfortunately, she had a heart attack, and with no hospital or neighbors for miles, death came knocking on her unlocked door in a hasty fashion. At the very least, this visit had put the fleeting quality of life into perspective for me. At this point, I figured it was the only thing that I would end up taking away from the place.

As I made my way down the stairs and back into the living room, I noticed something. I was in such a hurry to escape my corporeal memories that I didn’t notice it before. It was the desk – the desk where my aunt would sit and write for hours at a time. She said that it helped her experience the world outside of her cottage, by writing about how she imagined and wanted it to be. The more I remembered my aunt, the more I could see how isolated and somewhat unstable she really was. She was odd, but I loved her just the same, even now.

What I hadn’t noticed upon entering the house was that the desk drawer was open. I looked inside and found a single sheet of paper with my aunt’s handwriting on it. This is what it said:


To my dearest nephew,

If you are reading this, then the cold tides of death have swept me away once and for all. I know that we’ve not seen each other since you were a child, but I hope you still think fondly back on our time together. I was happy to look after you, and I know that you were happy to spend time with me. I don’t want you to be sad, or feel off-put about my death in any way. This is how it is, and in turn how it was meant to be. I will always hold you dear in my heart, and I hope you’ll do the same for me. I want you to live freely despite this, and enjoy each and every moment of your life, just as I did mine. I will see you again someday, and I look forward to it. Trust the world, and it will set you free.


I shed a single tear reading this passage, knowing that my aunt wanted me to find peace in this old house. The very closure I was looking for was in her desk the whole time. The elation I felt almost distracted me from the post script at the bottom of the page:


P.S. Don’t go in the basement.


How peculiar. What was down there? Was my aunt hiding something? If so, what was it?

Curious as ever, I walked over to the basement door with the letter in hand, knowing that the answers were down there. I took one last look at the warning. Don’t go in the basement. It was most likely the ramblings of an unstable woman on the verge of death, but what could be the real meaning behind it? Why the basement? Why me?

I could recall the basement from when I was younger, but I didn’t remember much. I had only been down there once. My aunt was outside gardening while I was inside reading one of her books. I grew tired of reading and set the book down on her desk. Soon after, I began wandering around the house out of boredom. I walked around the entire cottage rather quickly. Eventually, I came upon the basement, somewhere I had never played before. Knowing my aunt wouldn’t be in for a while, I decided to venture on. I turned the knob, and swung the door open. I could only see the top of the stairs descending downward into darkness. Despite the bit of fear rattling in my chest, I pressed on. Once down there, my field of vision was filled with pitch blackness. This caused me to scramble about, looking for a light-switch. After a few moments, I bumped into a string, dangling from the ceiling in the middle of the room. Upon pulling it, the room lit up, however dimly. What I saw disappointed me.

It was a typical basement, but smaller, with concrete walls, a concrete floor, and some pieces of wood sitting off in the corner (probably some old floor boards left over from the house’s construction). When you’re a kid, there’s a bit of mystery and adventure injected into everything you do. This adventure ended on a flat note, leading me to an unused space, lost to the depths of the house. The next thing I remember was my aunt’s voice as she came down the stairs yelling, “You can’t be down here!” She sounded more worried than angry – probably scared I would somehow hurt myself down there. There was more to this memory, but that was all I could recall while standing in front of the basement door.

I turned the knob and swung the door open, revealing only the top of the stairs and the basement below, completely void of light. Instead of feeling adventurous like I did as a child, I now felt nervous, repeating the words my aunt had left for me over and over in my head, and then asking myself once more; why?

I crept down the stairs slowly, so as not to shake the foundation. That’s what I told myself, but I guess my sluggish pace was largely because I was frightened at what I might find when I reached the bottom. Growing impatient and uncomfortably anxious, I picked up the pace a bit. I felt the concrete below my feet, and I rapidly darted towards the center of the room, reaching for the light, praying that it still worked. I felt around for the string and then pulled it. To my delight, it still harbored electricity. The room became dimly lit. In a panicky state, I spun around looking every which way as I did. What I saw, surprised me.

There was nothing there. It was just how I left it when I was a kid. Even the old floorboards were there, still untouched. I felt relieved, but far more confused than before. Why didn’t my aunt want me to go down there? I pondered for a bit and figured that maybe there was asbestos or mold in the cellar walls. This would explain why she didn’t want me playing in there as a kid, and why she didn’t want me there as an adult either. She just wanted to keep me safe, like she always did. This made me feel better, but deep down I knew there was more behind my aunt’s plea. As I made my way over to the stairs, something gave me reason to pause. Memories were coming back to me. I could recall being in the basement when I was younger, but there was something different about it. Different than how it looked now. There was a door. A door that led straight to the attic.

How could I have forgotten? It was all so clear to me now. I remember finding a door down there and entering the attic. I knew that it was attic, because I peered out the window and saw my aunt gardening two stories below. I waved to her, but she was too busy to notice me. I found it odd at the time that I was able to travel directly from basement to attic without so much as climbing a single step, but I brushed it off. After all, I was only ten, and I had no interest in getting caught up in the semantics of how a house was built. Being older, this strange memory was perplexing. How could the basement lead to the attic? It isn’t even remotely possible. I tried to call on some more memories, but the details of that day were still fuzzy.

I tried convincing myself that it was a dream I was recalling. How could it have been anything else? It was nonsense, right? There’s no way it really happened. Somewhat comfortable with this hypothesis, I continued to the stairs, but not before giving the basement another once-over. What I saw eliminated all doubt from my mind.

There, in the middle of the far left wall of the basement, was the door from my memory. I squinted and rubbed my eyes, keeping them closed for a good few seconds before opening them again. When I did, the door was still there, as tangible and existent as ever. This couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. I knew for a fact that the door was not there just a few moments before, and I had already convinced myself that my childhood memory was nothing more than a bizarre dream. What the hell was going on?

There was only way to find out.

After regaining some composure and mustering up a small amount of courage, I walked, however slowly, towards the inexplicable door. My unhurried movements mirrored my hesitant exterior, allowing me to stall for a moment while I gathered some nerve to actually open the damned thing. Despite my slothful motion, I covered the gap in a few seconds; a testament to the basement’s small size. The moment of truth was upon me. I took a deep breath, turned the knob, and pushed the door open. This was it. I would finally get to the bottom of my aunt’s plea and my own odd memories.

The door creaked and revealed the room behind it. Low and behold, it was none other than the attic; just as I remembered it, window and all! But how? The sunlight came through the window and danced across the room brilliantly, leaving me awestruck. I walked forward to look outside; to make sure that this was indeed the attic and that I hadn’t gone completely crazy. After peering out the window, that verdict was still up in the air.

Two stories below was my aunt’s yard. The grass was green as ever, and the sky was clear as day. Everything was so vibrant. I looked over at my aunt’s garden, and to my surprise there was a person there. It was a woman, and she was gardening. Who was that, and why was she in my aunt’s garden? She turned around revealing her face, and to my surprise… it was my aunt. What? How? My aunt was dead! I watched as she was lowered into the earth.

Just then, I heard the sound of footsteps from behind me. Startled, I turned around to face the noise.

“Who are you?” a soft voice asked.

It was my ten year old self, standing just twenty feet away from me. I was in such a delirious state by this point, that I decided to just go with it and converse with myself.

“I’m… a friend.” Is all I could think to say.

“You’re a friend of my aunt’s?” He asked innocently. I had forgotten just how curious I was as a child.

“Yes… a very dear friend.” My younger self walked over to look out the window where I was standing. I stepped aside and let him do so. He saw our aunt outside gardening below and waved at her. She didn’t notice.

“Do you have an aunt?” He asked.

“Yes… but she passed away.” I said.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Just then, an epiphany struck. Maybe this was the reason I was here. Maybe this was the closure I needed all along.

“Listen to me. I know it’s hard for you to understand right now, but someday your aunt will pass away too. I want you to spend as much time as possible with her and visit whenever you can. You mean the world to her, and you will regret it if you don’t make an effort to be with her now, while you still can.”

“Okay.” Is all he said. That’s all he needed to say.

After walking around and looking at some of the old stuff in the attic, including some old books that caught his eye, my younger self left the attic to venture back to the basement, and shut the door behind him. I looked out the window and noticed that my aunt had finished gardening and was now walking back to the house. This was when my next epiphany struck. I was beginning to remember more of the events from that day. It was all coming back to me. I remembered me as I look now, standing in the attic; the friendly bearded man with glasses! I remembered the conversation we had and even discussing it with my aunt afterwards.

My astonishment was interrupted by more footsteps in the next room. This time, they were my aunt’s. I ran over to the door and listened.

“You can’t be down here!” She yelled in a worried tone.

I wanted to open the door and confront her, just to see her one last time and to tell her that I’m sorry for never visiting. I reached for the knob, but I thought it best not to go out there. She would probably have thought that I was an intruder, lurking around her house. As I said before, she wouldn’t recognize me all grown up. My apology would have to go unspoken.

I could hear her scolding the younger version of me and then bringing me back upstairs. Instead of listening to find out what happened next, I just remembered. I could recall telling my aunt about the attic door in the basement and the friendly bearded man. She told me that I had “quite the imagination,” and told me to wash up for dinner. Looking back now, I remember a troubled glint in her eye, especially after divulging what the bearded man told me. She seemed to know more about my experience than she let on.

I stood there for a while, taking everything in. Eventually, I decided it was time for me to leave. I grabbed the knob and jiggled it. It wouldn’t budge. I turned it a little bit harder, but to no avail. A wave of terror consumed me. This didn’t make any sense. The doors in my aunt’s house had no locks. Then again, nothing made sense up until this point either.

I backed up a little and ran into the door. It remained still. I did this a few more times, and even tried breaking the window. Nothing happened. Feeling weary, I sat down and took a breather. This is when I heard a distant echo of footsteps and voices coming from within the house. It was my friend and his girlfriend! I had almost forgotten about them. I was saved!

In a relieved stupor, I called out to them. It became quickly apparent that they could not hear me from wherever I was. I heard them walking around, calling out my name. I increased my volume and started banging on the door.

“I’m in here, guys!” I yelled, not knowing whether I was below or above them. They still couldn’t hear me. I began to panic.

I started screaming at the top of my lungs and banging as hard as I could on the attic door. I received no response. With a dead voice and pained hands, I gave up. I put my back against the wall and slid down to a sitting position, a few tears streaming down my face. I just sat there and listened as my friend and his girlfriend conversed from within the house.

“Where could he be? He said he would meet us at the car, right? If he’s not in the house, then where the hell is he?” My friend asked his girlfriend.

“Did you try the basement?” She asked.

“Yes. There’s nothing but some old floorboards down there.”

“What about the attic?” She asked.

“I tried there too. It’s just filled with a bunch of old, dusty antiques.”

“We’ll have to call the police and have them look for him too. He must’ve gotten lost in the woods looking for us.”

As they made their way out of the cottage, my heart sunk. If they’d already searched the basement and attic, then where was I? I quietly sobbed in the corner for a while before looking through some of my aunt’s old things. It was all I could do, at this point. I didn’t care for any of it, save for one treasure of hers that caught my eye. It was a book with a blood-red symbol hand-painted on the front. I had never seen anything like it before. I opened it up and read the beginning aloud:

“The spells in this book are to be followed precisely. If even one step is not executed properly, you might endanger yourself and those around you. Use these spells at your own risk.”

The odd nature of the preface littered my nerves with a sense of worry. Was my aunt a witch? Before turning the page, I noticed an old lace bookmark saving one of the pages. I opened up to it and looked at the chapter heading:

Chapter VIII: Horticulture

I glanced over at the next page and saw a spell meant to “bring your garden to life.” The ritual involved lighting some candles and making a circle of some special sand I’ve never heard. From within the circle, you are to recite the spell, verbatim. My Latin was a little rusty, but from what I could read of the incantation, it said something along the lines of “bring above that which is below,” which I assumed referred to the growing of plants. I gathered that my aunt performed the ritual in the attic, as there were some dormant candles in with her stuff. The inclusion of this book in my aunt’s collection now made sense to me. She wanted to spice up her dull garden with a bit of witchcraft. I can say with some confidence that it more than likely backfired. I’m now stuck in this damned place; a place that seems to be a realm of its own. I will more than likely spend an eternity here.

I am growing now to accept my fate. She did warn me after all. I should have listened. This is my fault, and mine alone. With the endless paper and writing materials here in this old attic, I am left to do nothing but write down in words what has happened to me, in the hopes that someone may come across it, somehow – the words of a living ghost. If you are reading this, please listen to what I have to say. Your time here is not boundless, and at any moment the horrid hand of the unknown could come knocking at your door, there to bereave your loved ones, and steal you away from your blissful, ordinary existence. The cause of this sudden upheaval will be death, or in my case, something far worse. Last but not least, if you are ever in this neck of the woods and feel a need to stop in and say hi, go right ahead. I can’t promise you that you’ll get a response. I just want you to remember two things; your life is fleeting, so spend your time wiser than I did mine – and whatever you do, don’t go in the basement.



CREDIT: Christopher Maxim

(Click HERE to check out Christopher Maxim’s book, How To Exit Your Body and Other Strange Tales)

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The Monster in the Pantry

The Monster in the PantryReading Time: 8 minutes 


*NOTE: This creepypasta was originally published on the site in May of 2016. We are republishing the post because it has been edited and rewritten by the author. Enjoy.*


Unexplained phenomenon is a staple in human culture. Strange goings-on, paranormal in nature, are prominent in our lives, in one form or another. You may not think about them all that often, but there’s always a piece in the news or a crazy story from a friend or passerby that makes you recall such strangeness. No matter how many times you forget about the subject, there will always be a moment that drags the notion back to the surface of your memory. For several years, I had forgotten all about the monster living in my mom’s pantry. I had forgotten all about it, that is, until now.

I was ten years old when I first became aware of the monster’s presence. It was a normal evening at home; my mother and I awaited my father’s arrival and I helped her out with dinner preparations. I look back on these memories fondly – I loved cooking with my mom and was overjoyed whenever my father came home from work. I had what some would consider a picture-perfect childhood, save for one peculiarity. The thing that resided in the pantry would audibly reveal itself that very night.

While cutting up vegetables for my mom’s famous beef barley soup, I heard a scratching at the pantry door. Startled, I jumped, nearly cutting off one of my fingers in the process. My mom looked over at the pantry, then to me with a concerned smile. I looked to her for answers, utterly baffled by the noise.

“There it goes again, scratching at the pantry door.”

“What is it, mom?” I asked.

“I’m not too sure, sweetie, but it’s been here ever since we moved in. Sometimes it scratches at the door, other times it will knock food off the pantry shelves. Some nights, it doesn’t make a sound at all.”

There was no comfort derived from her explanation. I was still frightened, and my mother noticed this.

“It’s nothing to be scared of, honey.”

“Is it something… bad?” I asked.

“No, of course not.”

Just then, the scratching recommenced. I jumped a second time. My mother then walked over to the pantry door.

“Here, look…”

She opened it up as the scratching continued. Once the door was completely ajar, the sound ceased.

“See, sweetie? There’s nothing to be worried about.”

Despite my mother’s comforting words, my ten-year old heart couldn’t help but race with fear. In the coming years, I continued to help her cook, but I never once set foot back in that pantry; convinced that the thing living in there was a monster, out to get me. This fear was kept alive by the scratching that would interrupt otherwise happy moments. I ignored it the best I could, but sometimes I would have to leave the kitchen.

Eventually, the sounds stopped all together.




It’s now been many years since then, and both of my parents have passed away. In their wills, I was left everything, including my childhood home. It took me a while to come to terms with their deaths and move back in, but I eventually accepted the situation and embraced the living space where I grew up.

It was the little memories sprinkled throughout the house that helped me cope. Sometimes I would walk into the living room and see my dad sitting in his chair, smoking a cigar and watching his favorite sitcom. At other points, I would see my mother in the kitchen, making us dinner. These corporeal fragments of a time long since passed kept me going. After a while, the house felt like home again… until one day.

I had just arrived home from work when it happened. I sat down on my dad’s favorite chair and flipped on the TV to unwind. Something crossed my mind; minus the tobacco, I had actually become my father. This thought put a bit of a smile on my face as I reclined the chair to relax. Relaxation never came though, as an all too familiar scratching sound emanated from the nearby pantry. My smile quickly vanished.

I jumped up and ran to the kitchen to investigate. The scratching continued and increased in volume. I stared at the door hoping an answer would jump out at me, but also hoping whatever was inside wouldn’t do the same. Without many options at my disposal, I was forced to open it.

Much to my anticipation, the noise ceased, and I found nothing behind the door but some empty shelves and an old broom. This was the same thing that happened when my mother opened the door many years ago.

I was no longer a frightened child, but the sound’s return was still unnerving; at least, it was at first. After a while, it became nothing more than a bothersome fixture in my otherwise normal days. Whenever I came home from work, woke up in the middle of the night, or sat down to watch television, that terrible scratching would invade my ear-space, not stopping until I opened that damned pantry door. This routine continued for over a year. One night, however, everything changed.

I had just gotten home from a long day of work and flung myself into the comfort of my bed sheets. I wanted more than anything to drift off into a peaceful slumber, hoping the day’s troubles would melt away in the form of happy dreams and restful sleep. Unfortunately for me, the moment my head hit the pillow, the scratching started up once more.

I groaned in anger, not wanting to leave my bed for anything, much less that damned noise. Because of this, I made the mistake of not getting up right away. I hit my internal snooze button and allowed myself to drift off for a few moments. When I came to, something was amiss. I didn’t notice it at first, but the unsettling silence made way for a startling revelation.  The scratching had stopped.

How strange. It’s never stopped on its own before.

 Perplexed, I jumped out of bed and ventured downstairs to investigate. What I saw upon entering the kitchen alarmed me – the pantry door was wide open.

That can’t be… it was definitely closed when I got home earlier…

 Turning the light on only revealed the usual empty shelves. It wasn’t until my hand met the wood of the door that I noticed something unusual. Embedded in the hard oak were deep gashes; claw marks that covered the entire bottom half of the door.

Those weren’t there before… what the hell is going on?

 My childhood was beginning to catch up with me. Memories of the pantry came bursting through the floodgates; the scratches, the nightmares… the fear. But I wasn’t a child this time, and I wasn’t going to let a little superstition get the better of me. It was just a raccoon or a large rat, that’s all. At least, that’s what I told myself.

I scoured the house for nearly an hour, ignoring my fast-beating heart the whole time. Whatever escaped from the pantry was nowhere to be found. As I stepped back into the kitchen to close the door and call it a night, something stopped me in my tracks. A shadowy figure raced across my field of vision and into the pantry.




The pantry door shut on its own, shaking the walls around it. A bone-chilling vibration reverberated throughout the entire house in an instant and was then followed by an eerily dead silence. My heart sank to my bowels. I was officially rattled.

Running on pure instinct, I grabbed the heaviest things I could find and piled them in front of the door, including my dad’s old chair. Once satisfied with my blockade, I raced upstairs, locked my bedroom door, and jumped underneath the sheets. I was a kid again, scared shitless of the monster living in my mom’s pantry.

After the fear and adrenaline tapered off, I managed to get a little bit of rest. My late-night adventure had come to an end.




I woke up the next morning in denial; a defense mechanism of a mind bruised by fear. Pretending nothing happened the previous night, I went about my morning routine as normal. After breakfast, I was able to walk right past the pile of crap in front of the pantry without flinching. I even ignored the scratch marks on my front door as I left for work. Everything was fine. There was no monster. No supernatural entity taking over my home. That was absurd. It was just a raccoon. A very large raccoon.

The lies only lasted for so long. Driving away, the terror set back in, sending me into a desperate frenzy of distress and unease. Though distracted by my strange predicament, I managed to make it to work in one piece.

Work brought me no solace. All I could think about was what awaited me at home. I was on edge and my boss noticed this. He asked if I needed to leave early and get some rest – I practically shouted the word NO at him, begging him to let me stay. I wanted to be away from that house for as long as I could. Though confused by my unorthodox behavior, my boss obliged.

I might have been able to stay at work, but I had to clock out eventually. The day went by far too quickly, and before I knew it, I was back home, sitting in my driveway, dreading the thought of opening the front door. Because of this, I sat in my car for a while, attempting to come up with a plan of action.

What do I do? Who can I tell? Where will I stay?

 The questions swirled around my tired mind until I shut my eyes and took a deep breath to relax. The weariness caught up with me in this moment, causing me to drift off into a stress-induced coma of sorts. I woke up a few hours later to the terrifying sight of scratch marks on my driver-side window. That was the last straw.

“That’s it!” I proclaimed out loud.

I wasn’t going to let this thing control my life, and I certainly wasn’t going to let it drive me out of my own home. This is where I grew up; where I spent my childhood with my mother and father. They were still with me; the recollections scattered throughout the house, reminding me of who they were and the impact they’ve had on my life. No amount of scratching was going to tear through the memories I had of them.

Fed up, I got out of my car, walked up to the house, and swung the front door open. I was greeted with the sound of scratching, but this time it was louder than it had ever been before. As I stormed over to the kitchen, the noise morphed into a thunderous banging at the pantry door, causing the stuff I piled in front of it to move a bit. Whatever was inside really wanted to get out this time.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins. My fight-or-flight response was begging me to run, but it was too late. I had already made up my mind. I was going to face this thing head on and get to the bottom of the mystery. This was my home, after all. It belonged to me and my family – not whatever this thing was.

In removing the stack of furniture, the banging continued and grew louder. The kitchen cabinets around me swung open. Various pots and pans fell off the shelves. An earthquake of supernatural proportions filled my home, but I didn’t allow it to rattle me. I knew what I had to do.

After a moment of mental preparation, I opened the pantry door…

There, sitting behind the door, was a dog. It sat there and looked up at me in confusion. I did the same to it. After giving me a once-over, it walked over to me and nuzzled up against my leg. I instinctively reached down and pet it, as I would any dog. But this wasn’t any dog. After a few minutes of getting to know each other, it walked back into the pantry and vanished before my very eyes.

It was… a ghost.




My fear completely dissipated after that day. I now come home to the sound of scratching and smile. I no longer open the pantry door in fear, but instead, to let my new friend out. He walks around the house, exploring, just like a normal dog would. He even sits down and watches TV with me from time to time. He is a bit shy, though, vanishing whenever I have company over. Still, he is a good dog. A very good dog. I assume he belonged to one of the many owners of the house, seeing as it had been built long before my parents moved in. I guess he just couldn’t let the place go. Neither could I.

A few weeks of bonding later and I realized that I didn’t have anything to call him by. I walked over to the little guy and pet him on the back of his neck – that was his favorite spot. I thought about it for a moment and then came up with the perfect name.

“I will call you… Monster.”



Credit: Christopher Maxim

(Click HERE to check out Christopher Maxim’s book, How To Exit Your Body and Other Strange Tales)

**Click HERE to check out creepypasta’s official YouTube channel**

The post The Monster in the Pantry appeared first on Creepypasta.

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My Roommate Joined a Cult

My Roommate Joined a CultReading Time: 9 minutes

I’m a student at Bridgewater State in Massachusetts. I share a dorm with my roommate, Wallace. We both major in computer science, and that’s all we’ve ever talked about on the rare occasions that we actually speak to one another. We don’t have much else in the way of common ground.

You see, Wallace is an odd guy. He’s very socially awkward and doesn’t have many friends, if any at all. I’ve only ever seen him talking to his professors, and one time, the janitor. It’s safe to say that Wallace is a recluse. Because of this, I don’t know much about him. I would love for the guy to open up more, but I’m not sure how to go about doing that. Besides, I have enough on my plate as it is between exams and the struggle of day-to-day finances. As cliche as it might sound, Ramen is a popular meal on campus.

Another one of Wallace’s quirks is his obsessive compulsive nature. He conducts himself in a very specific manner and has his daily routine mapped out to a tee. It never changes. When he wakes up, he brushes his teeth, making sure to gargle and spit exactly three times. He then puts on a striped shirt followed by khaki pants. His wardrobe never changes. He always arrives to class five minutes early and turns in his assignments a day before they are due. This is how it’s always been.

How do I know all of this? Well, being a socially awkward hermit, Wallace didn’t tell me these things. I don’t think he’s even aware that his routine is a byproduct of OCD (I’m not claiming to know exactly what causes Wallace’s actions, but I do minor in psychology). It’s just something I’ve picked up on during the two years I’ve lived with the guy. It’s almost impossible not to notice.

Knowing Wallace’s usual behavioral patterns, I noticed that something wasn’t right. He began sleeping in his clothes, not brushing his teeth, and not passing in his assignments on time. Eventually, he stopped sleeping in our dorm all together. After over a day of not seeing him, things started looking grim.

Despite not knowing Wallace all that well, I became worried. Depression and suicide rates are at an all time high for our age group. I didn’t want the poor guy to do something stupid. That worry justified me hacking into his laptop to see what he’d been up to. It was the only thing I could think to do.

In finding his laptop and turning it on, I felt like a fool. The thing was as clean as a whistle, at least to my eyes. You see, though I pride myself in my tech know-how, Wallace is far more adept in the field. It was safe to say that I wouldn’t find a shred of evidence as to where he might be, or what he’d been doing. No journal entries, no browsing history, no nothing.

Feeling anxious, I thought about any other potential ways to continue my hunt for the truth. That’s when something clicked. Like I said before, I sometimes saw Wallace talking to the janitor in the halls. He was the only person I had ever seen him speak with at length. It was possible that he would know something about Wallace’s state of affairs.

Later that night, I exited my dorm and wandered the halls. Eventually I found Chuck, the janitor. I tried to be gentle when confronting him, as he had his back to me and was known to be hard of hearing. Still, when I tapped him on the shoulder, he jumped.

“Holy cheese balls, you nearly scared me half to death!”

Chuck laughed through his bushy, gray mustache.

“What can I do for you, son?”

I told Chuck about my predicament and how I was concerned for Wallace, having not seen him in a while. Chuck’s happy expression transformed into a look of unease and tension. He seemed to know a bit more than I did.

“Well, here’s the thing. Wallace is a good kid and we do chat from time to time. I happen to know where he might be, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable blurting out the details of his social life to anyone who asked, even if you are his roommate.”

Social life? Wallace didn’t have a social life. I pressured Chuck into letting me in on the secret. I really laid it on thick, expressing a great deal of concern for Wallace’s well-being. Being the nice, old janitor that Chuck is, he eventually gave in.

“Okay, okay. I understand. Just please don’t tell him that I told ya, okay?”

I nodded, eagerly awaiting for him to reveal Wallace’s whereabouts.

“Wallace has been feeling really down lately. He’s got no one to talk to but me. The kid wanted some friends. People that he could hang out with and talk to, ya know?”

I listened closely for the details I so desperately sought after.

“So, Wallace went on something he called… oh what was it… the deep web? On there he found a group of people. They called themselves the ‘Clan of the Red Wolf’ or something like that. Tthey invited him to one of their meetings. That’s probably where he is right now. He seemed pretty excited when he told me about it. In fact, it’s all he’s been talkin’ about for the past week.”

There. That was it. That was the bit of info I needed. The key to finding Wallace.

I thanked Chuck and gave him a goodnight wave as I ran back to my dorm room. From the sounds of it, Wallace got himself involved with another group of people who share in his interests and eventually they invited him to hang out in real life. I had their quirky name –“The Clan of the Red Wolf”, and that’s all I needed to find them on the deep web myself. Soon enough, I would be able to find my missing roommate.

It took quite a while, but I finally managed to find a deep web forum pertaining to the so called Clan. It contained nothing but a description and a series of videos. Here is the description as it appeared on the site:

Welcome to your new belief system!

We are the Clan of the Red Wolf, and we’re here to help! There are seven educational videos on this site, each tailored to a specific belief that we want to share with you. You are asked to watch these programs to understand our doctrine. If you make it to the last one, you will be invited into our den! Good luck!

The summary was bizarre, but nothing less than what I’d expected. Scrolling further, I noticed that all of the videos were titled similarly – “Day One”, “Day Two”, and so on. Naturally, I watched them.

The whole series reminded me of old war propaganda. It was made in the style of a vintage cartoon, starring a wolf as the main focus. Not a normal wolf, but a cartoon caricature version of one. Picture a character similar to Wile E. Coyote.

In each video, the wolf learned a new Clan value from the campy, male narrator. Not unlike old cartoons, the wolf comically goes against the narrator’s wishes and suffers the consequences before learning his lesson. Every video ends with the narrator saying, “Join the pack. You never have to feel alone again!” I guessed that was the selling point for lonely Wallace.

I will share with you a bit of the transcript from each video along with any points of interest.

VIDEO ONE: Wildlife

“Treat flora and fauna with dignity and respect. They’re people too! Trees provide you with the air you breathe and animals share the earth with you, keeping you from being alone! They deserve more than you ever will!”

*Wolf relieves himself on tree. Tree falls on top of him, crushing his head and revealing the blood and brain matter inside*

VIDEO TWO: Thicker Than Blood

“Your blood is the most important material in your earthly vessel! The Clan requires a sample upon joining our order. This is a requirement for all pledges. Our blood must flow as one for us to work together and save the planet!”

*Wolf enters a room full of cloaked figures – presumably Clan members. All members are in line, giving blood samples. The Wolf refuses to have his blood drawn and walks away. A cloaked figure sneaks up on him and slices his throat with a dagger. Video focuses on the wolf bleeding out for a few moments before fading to black*

VIDEO THREE: Obey or Suffer

“Remember what happened to our friend when he didn’t give his blood to the cause? He didn’t obey our order’s rules, so he had to suffer the consequences. Remember, the Clan’s laws are important. You must obey or perish. Trust me, it’s worth it!”

*Shows the wolf bleeding out again, only now a few cloaked figures are on top of him, stabbing his corpse repeatedly*

VIDEO FOUR: Vow of Secrecy

“The Clan of the Red Wolf is often misunderstood. Because of this, it is important to never tell anyone of our existence, under any circumstances! You may only speak about Clan activity with other Clan members. Break this rule and you will perish!”

*Wolf is shown talking to his wolf pals and showing them his new cloak. A cloaked figure walks in frame with what looks like a semi-automatic weapon and opens fire. The wolves fall to the ground, dead. The cloaked figure gives a thumbs up before the video ends*

VIDEO FIVE: Learn and Understand

“If you’re allowed into our inner sanctum, you will be greeted with knowledge! We abide by the word of the Red Wolf and you will too! You will be expected to learn and understand his teachings, otherwise you will fail – not only the Clan, but the entire world.”

*Wolf is seen in a classroom environment taking a test of some sort. He turns it in to a cloaked teacher and receives an F. The entire class points and laughs at him and then pulls out a plethora of medieval weaponry from their robes. They then proceed to close in on the wolf. The wolf swallows the lump in his throat before the video ends*

VIDEO SIX: Tasks and Rituals

“As a new recruit, you will be asked to carry out various tasks ranging from the mundane to the fantastic. Most of these missions will involve fetching ingredients for our rituals. As boring as that may sound, it is the most important thing you can ever do for the Clan! Rituals are what give the Clan power. Without this power, we cannot hope to rid the world of what plagues it.”

*Wolf fails to bring ingredients to Clan member for ritual. Jump cut to wolf being sacrificed on a black altar atop a pentagram, carved into the floor. He is beaten, cut open, and eventually torn apart by his fellow Clansmen*


“When accepted as a full fledged clan member, you are no longer considered ‘human’. You will be one of us. From that point forward, you are discouraged from any and all human interaction, unless it is deemed necessary to the cause. Humans are vile, filthy, disgusting, and dangerous creatures. We seek to exterminate them once and for all. Any human who knows of our existence and isn’t deemed worthy enough to join must be killed. Nature is your only friend.”

*Wolf is walking down a ‘main street’-like environment and can be seen waving to everyone he sees. He comes upon a Clan member who then pierces his gut with a long blade and tosses him aside in the road where he is then run over by numerous cars*




The content of the videos was incredibly jarring. I almost couldn’t believe that such a cult could actually exist, let alone that Wallace would join them. He must have really been lonely.

The last video exited with the same “Join the pack” spiel and then faded out to a screen with a series of numbers. I assumed this was my invitation into the “den,”  perhaps an encrypted set of coordinates leading to the Clan’s lair. That, I thought, must have been where Wallace had gone.

I wrote down the code and immediately started doing some research to begin cracking it. Just as I was in the thick of things, something hit me. One of the videos stated that you couldn’t talk to anyone about the Clan under any circumstances. But Wallace talked to Chuck. That didn’t make any sense. Wallace was a stickler for rules.

Another fact hit me. The video stated that you could only talk about Clan activity with other Clan members. What if Chuck was one of them? Chuck could be stationed at the college to recruit members and he simply nudged Wallace in the right direction. He could have been playing dumb with me when I questioned him.

So either Chuck was a Clansman or Wallace broke a cardinal rule. Neither theory held much water. If Chuck was a member, then why would he have told me anything without either recruiting or killing me? And if Wallace was so eager to be accepted into a strict cult, then why would he disobey their wishes? I couldn’t make much sense of either angle.

I eventually gave in to the notion that perhaps Wallace simply disregarded the rules in lieu of his excitement. He was finally going to have friends, so he had to tell someone. This didn’t completely sit well with me, but I had to get back to cracking the code. I didn’t have time to dwell on uncertainties.

Just then, there was a knock at my dorm room door, followed by a voice.

“It’s Chuck, the janitor! I’m here to tidy up your room.”

Chuck never cleaned dorm rooms…

…that wasn’t part of his job.

“I’m all set!” I yelled, hoping he would leave me be.

The knocking ceased. There was a long stretch of silence followed by a soft, metallic creak.

The doorknob was turning.


CREDIT: Christopher Maxim

(Click HERE to checkout Christopher Maxim’s latest book, How To Exit Your Body and Other Strange Tales)

**Click HERE to check out creepypasta’s official YouTube channel**

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I Discovered The Meaning of Life

I Discovered The Meaning of LifeReading Time: 4 minutesSo, I discovered the meaning of life. Or at least, that’s what my eager customers are led to believe. You see, two or three times a month, I post a listing titled “The Meaning of Life” to various auction sites. I couple it with a sappy picture of a sunset or rainbow and a description that reads “All views are subjective. Results may vary.” Most people wouldn’t bat an eye at such a ridiculous listing, but there are some gullible folks out there that take the bait. When the bidding ends, I usually take home anywhere from $5 to $12.

After I’ve received my money via Paypal, I ship out the item. What is the item, you might ask? Well, I scribble down an inspirational quote or life lesson onto a piece of paper and mail it out in your standard, letter-sized envelope. The quotes are usually from famous writers, historical figures, or the Bible. Some of them include:


“If light is in your heart, you will find your way home.” (quoted from Rumi)

“People will forget what you said. People will forget what you did. But People will never forget how you made them feel.” (quoted from Maya Angelou)

“It’s never too late to be what you might have been.” (quoted from George Eliot)

And that’s it. One stamp, a drop in the mailbox and my work is done. It’s as simple as that.


You might call me a scammer or a con-artist, or perhaps even a plagiarist – and in truth, you are correct. I’m taking advantage of the naive people out there who are probably just looking for a sense of purpose in life – all so I can make a quick buck. But I’d like to think most people know it’s bullshit and purchase my listing just to see what I’ll send them. Besides, I’m a bachelor right out of college. So long as I can make a small dent in my phone bill and eat a packet of ramen each night, I’ll sleep just fine.

As you might imagine, I receive quite a bit of hate-mail. I’ve learned to ignore angry emails and private messages on the auction sites. As soon as I see that it’s from one of my customers, it gets deleted. I do, however, receive the occasional snail mail. It’s unavoidable, as my PO Box is listed on all of the envelopes I send out. It would be pretty easy for me to toss these letters in the trash with the rest of my junk mail, but I never can. Something about receiving a physical letter from someone, good or bad, compels me to read it. I feel that anyone who takes the time to write one deserves to have their voice heard, even if I don’t really care for what they have to say.

The more physical letters I receive, the more amused I am by them. To paint a better picture, here are a few of my favorite quotes from the “fan mail” I’ve received over the years:


“You’re nothing but a glorified fortune cookie service.”

“You’ll rot in hell for the sins you’ve committed. Mark my words.”

“You’re a real f***ing piece of shit, you know that?”


It’s reached a point where reading these letters has become the highlight of my week. I’ve even tacked up some of the better ones on a cork board in my bedroom. You might think that’s sick and a little messed up, but I think it’s hilarious.

Not all of the letters I receive are bad. There’s one guy by the name of “Red” (no last name -that’s all he ever writes above his return address) who mails me constantly. He sends me inspirational quotes in exchange for mine. I assume he’s a repeat buyer who enjoys paying for and receiving cheerful messages in his mailbox every now and again. A man of class and dignity; my kind of customer.

The first quote Red ever sent me was “The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.” from Mark Twain. This was a great first impression, as Mark Twain is one of my favorite authors. The return quote was much appreciated. As such, I hung it up next to the hate-mail on my cork board.

Some of the things Red sends me, however, are not cork board material. Some of the quotes he sends are morbid and depressing, and other times he’ll mail me small packages containing little trinkets that I have no use for. It’s a little weird, but I figure the guy is depressed and just needs a friend. Maybe the quotes he buys from me are the only thing he has to look forward to each morning. Perhaps the things he sends me are his way of saying thanks. To me, it’s validation that what I’m doing isn’t completely sleazy.

But here’s where things get weird. Today, I received another envelope from Red. I smiled when I pulled it out of my PO Box. His letters and gifts, no matter how odd, were just as much, if not more of a highlight to my week than the endlessly entertaining hate-mail. Upon opening the envelope, however, my smile vanished.

Inside was a photograph of me, taken up close through my bedroom window. On the back of the photograph was another one of Red’s quotes:

“You look so alone. Where’s the meaning in your life?”


CREDIT: Christopher Maxim

(Click HERE to check out Christopher Maxim’s latest book, How To Exit Your Body and Other Strange Tales)

**Click HERE to check out creepypasta’s official YouTube channel**

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Creepypasta Publishing Announcement

Creepypasta PublishingReading Time: 2 minutes 


We here at creepypasta are proud to announce our first venture into book publishing. We’ve just released a very special paperback edition of Christopher Maxim‘s book, “How To Exit Your Body and Other Stange Tales” (Click HERE to check out his stories on the site). If you’re unfamiliar with the book, it is a collection of seven of his short stories with beautiful artwork by Crowtesque and a foreword by popular YouTube narrator CreepsMcPasta.

How To Exit Your Body Book


This special paperback release (pictured above) includes a brand new cover designed by the talented Steven Rhodes (you may have seen some of his t-shirts in Hot Topic and/or Spencer’s, including his famous “Let’s Summon Demons” design, pictured below).

Let's Summon Demons


In addition, Steven has added a t-shirt for the book to his online shop as part of his ever-popular “For Beginners” collection (the design can be printed on other merch as well):

How To Exit Your Body Shirt


Click HERE to check out the book

Click HERE to check out the shirt

Click HERE to follow Christopher Maxim on facebook

If you can’t afford to buy this paperback edition but you still want to read the book, click HERE to get the Kindle edition for $0.99 (or FREE with Kindle Unlimited). No matter which version you get, be sure to leave a review once you’re done reading!


Creepypasta Publishing is a way for us to help horror writers publish their work and spread their stories to a whole new audience. We plan on releasing a brand new book next month from an up and coming author (already in the works). Thank you to the creepypasta fandom for your continued support, and thank you for taking the time to read these tales day in and day out. Stay tuned for our next announcement!


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