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Creepypasta: Nightmare of NightmaresEvery night when Wendy tucked her daughter Chrissy into bed, Chrissy would beg for her mother to check under the bed for monsters. Ordinarily this wouldn’t be so unusual, but Chrissy was almost twelve years old now. She hoped she wouldn’t have to take her daughter to counseling to sort this out. But tonight Chrissy didn’t make her usual pleaded request.
“Don’t you want me to check for the monsters, Chrissy?” she asked, praying her daughter would answer in the negative.
“I know that the monsters under my bed won’t hurt me tonight, mom” Chrissy said.
Wendy was elated. At last her daughter had learned not to fear what lurked at the corners of her mind. It was then, as Wendy bent over her daughter to kiss her goodnight that she heard a creak from behind her and her daughter spoke again.
“They’re too afraid of that new monster in the closet.”
Twenty Word Story"Once, when you were still here," he said softly in an empty room. "I think I might have loved you."
Casa Nueva parte 3La segunda noche fue apenas un poco mejor que la anterior. Abigail pudo dormir pero cada cierto tiempo era despertada por los reclamos roncos de su madre.
- ¡Abigail! – gritaba la anciana - ¡Alguien está arriba de la casa!
No era una posibilidad descabellada, después de todo la parte del fondo de la casa quedaba en la ladera del cerro y no había sido difícil para alguien subir al techo una vez dentro del terreno.
Prestó atención una y otra vez pero nunca pudo percibir paso alguno. una y otra vez volvió a dormirse para ser despertada nuevamente un par de horas más tarde por su madre recitando la misma historia.
Al día siguiente. Las cosas se pusieron un tanto más raras.
Fue hacia el mediodía cuando lo escuchó. Eran pasos en el techo. Pasos de algo pesado, pero no era una persona, era algo cuadrúpedo. No podía ser un caballo, o una vaca, pues no se escuchaban pezuñas.
Beyond the GateHand in hand brother and sister ran out the door to play. Mother told them not to play too close to the gate and they must never, ever go through it. She always told them that, never saying why.
As the days passed they ventured closer and closer to the gate until they were caught and scolded.
“I’ve told you a thousand times,” she yelled.
But why, they implored. Nothing ever happened.
She looked terribly sad and scared. “Bad things have happened,” she spoke softly, her voice shaky. How could she explain? They wouldn’t listen. Saying only bad things was far too vague. “People… Children have gone missing.”
“Lost?” her daughter asked wide eyed.
“Yes, lost,” she answered, hoping that would be enough. But it wasn’t for her son, the elder.
“I won’t get lost! I know the way all around town,” he puffed up with pride.
So she told them. “It’s not that sort of lost, my son.” She
The Man from Winnesmore (Nosferatu)When The Man left for Winnesmore, it was a terror in disguise; The Man moved coffins filled with damned dirt that only rodents could love. Indeed, the carriers of the plague occupied the maggot infested dirt, creating the most unholy and unruly soil.
The Man himself portrayed a similar quality to the vermin he traveled with; his head bald, his teeth protruded like broken glass from his oddly shaped head. His body long and lean, his arms and legs sprouted from him like long vines from a plant.
The Man often strolled the city of Winnesmore, seeking a suitor and as he went about his business, his rats followed him; spreading the most fatal disease known to man, or any man before him.
The oddity lived on Refson Drive, in a Warehouse leased to Reinfield Goods; his strange figure fitting just for the door's twisted and blue shape. It was on the night that when the mourning buried their dead, he lifted the plots to feed him and his vermin companions.
This cycle was relentless; his vermin pois
An Error Most GraveFarnsworth and I cowered low behind the tombstone.
“You had to open the dashed thing!” he chastised me.
“My dear chap,” I kept my voice as low as possible, “do you think now an apt time?”
“Damn you, woman!” Van Dyke bristling he grimaced. “If this is the last of me…”
“I shall ensure to send a conciliatory missive to your dearest and your mother,” I japed, rising as we cocked our flintlock pistols at the ready.
We had come to make the gravest of errors; the assumption that which we hunted—or more accurately, hunted us—was human.
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