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50 Creepypasta Milestone Reached

As of today, 24/04/11, we have officially reached 50 creepypasta, 20 creepypictures, and 3 paranormal posts on creepypasta.co.uk.

The Holder of the End

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house in you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of the End". Should a look of child-like fear come over the workers face, you will then be taken to a cell in the building. It will be in a deep hidden section of the building. All you will hear is the sound of someone talking to themselves echo the halls. It is in a language that you will not understand, but your very soul will feel unspeakable fear.

Should the talking stop at any time, STOP and QUICKLY say aloud "I'm just passing through, I wish to talk." If you still hear silence, flee. Leave, do not stop for anything, do not go home, don't stay at an inn, just keep moving, and sleep where your body drops. You will know in the morning if you've escaped.

If the voice in the hall comes back after you utter those words continue on. Upon reaching the cell all you will see is a windowless room with a person in the corner, speaking an unknown language, and cradling something. The person will only respond to one question: "What happens when they all come together?"

The person will then stare into your eyes and answers your question in horrifying detail. Many go mad in that very cell, some disappear soon after the meeting, and a few end their lives. But most do the worst thing and look upon the object in the person's hands. You will want to as well. Be warned, if you do your death will be that of cruelty and unrelenting horror. Your death will be in that room, by that person's hands.

This object is 1 of 538. They must never come together. Never.

Source: The Holders Series of Creepypasta

Grinning

This morning I stepped out of the shower and this bathroom was fine: white walls, white tiles, sink and counter with toothpaste crusted all over. Three out of the four light bulbs over the mirror were still good — 100 watt, clear bulb, blinding bright in the small white room. Like always I was late, so I skipped shaving. She liked it when I didn’t shave, anyway. I was thinking about doing mutton chops. She’d get a kick out of that. I passed the mirror and noticed I was grinning. I didn’t even know I was grinning.

I’m in the bathroom tonight before bed and there’s something wrong with the lights. All three are on again but they glow kind of brown and don’t really light up the rest of the room. I should get more bulbs from the kitchen. I should, but I’m busy. The date was **** and she shut her apartment door on me. You’d think that would wipe off the stupid grin from this morning. But I came back in the bathroom and, in the mirror, my face was still doing it. If I touch my face it doesn’t feel like a grin, but there it is in the mirror.

In the brown light it’s hard to make out but — have you ever actually counted how many teeth show when you smile? I lean in close. One, two, three, four — I didn’t know my mouth was so wide — nine, ten, eleven — I can’t do mutton chops after all. The corners of my lips are out to my ears. It still doesn’t feel like a grin. But I keep counting, for curiosity.

Thirty-six — thirty-seven — thirty-eight...

Solipsism

Ever heard of a philosophical movement known as solipsism? Basically, according to the solipsist, only he exists. Since his only mind is the only thing he knows to be truly real, nothing else is.

Actually, the logic follows quite nicely. If the senses are our only means of processing information, and the senses are ultimately unreliable, then everything in your head must be - and is the only - reality.

And that's where the unsettling implications start to come in. That thing under the bed, in the attic, that your parents told you is "all in your head?" Well, your parents are also "all in your head." Your sight, your only source of reasoning, so reassuring when you turn the lights on and gasp in relief when you see that nothing's there? All in your head.

The thing in the attic, however, is another story. You've never seen it, you've never heard it, you've never sensed it, but your body really wants your mind to believe that it's not there.

Now why might that be?

Bathysphere Emails from Gabe Newell - Portal 2

On and around the evening of April 7th, several gaming websites including Joystiq and MacRumors reported receiving a strange image sent by Gabe Newell (president of Valve Software). Each image received was different but clearly showed an inverted photo of an object (later determined to be a bathysphere, which happens to have similar appearances to the personality cores of GLaDOS in Portal) and a series of 3 digit numbers. Though some journalists published the files with altered names, the intact names ("berets or scoop", "bee torso crops", "sorbet coopers", "sort eco probes") all were anagrams of each other and the phrase "REBOOT PROCESS". As with the first ARG, this message suggested that GLaDOS was being rebooted.

The pictures clearly formed a 3x3 tiled composite image even when the last piece had not been found. As hinted by the inverted picture, the numbers are translated to a message by inverting them also (bitwise inversion by subtracting from 255) to obtain an ASCII message. The message, even with the missing piece, seemed to be from someone inside Aperture Science. It talked about the early release of Kick It, and thirteen offsite test chambers (likely referring to all the Potato Sack games).

An final ninth piece was discovered from one of the puzzles through a URL shortener, but discovered to be false as the numbers did not decode the same way. The true 9th piece was revealed by a verified [kotaku.com Kotaku] editor and the full message was completed. While the meaning was not changed extra letters in the message spelled out 4/19/2011_7AM=4/15/2011_9AM, which has yet to be given any meaning. However, in light of the decoded message, "emancipating something early" (amongst synonyms for the word "Emancipate" are "set free" and "release"), as well as a recent message from the Dejobaan incident stating, "You may as well sit back and enjoy it when it happens," it is likely to be hinting at an early release for Portal 2.

The actual location of the bathysphere was discovered (a marine supply store in Seattle) but while the bathysphere is present, there were no clues to any other part of the ARG there.

This puzzle has yet to be connected to any other part of the ARG, and was not provided through any of the Potato Sack. As the decoded message states, Gabe is trying to drum up interest in the ARG by getting the attention of several tech and gaming sites with a relatively simple puzzle.

* This is just a guess about 4/19/2011_7AM=4/15/2011_9AM. 4/19/2011 at 7am is the release date for Portal 2 on Steam, so maybe 4/15/2011 at 9am is going to be an early release for people participating in the ARG. (might have to have all 13 potatoes, might not)


Source: http://valvearg.com/wiki/Emails_from_Gabe_Newell

Grasp - Keiland

On December 17th, 1994, bodies of the Dunne family were found in a fear-
induced coma in their home in Mayo, Ireland. The father was found under the
kitchen table frozen stiff as a rock in a paralysis with his eyes gaping open, the same
as the eldest child who was clutching to the bathroom curtains upstairs. Nearly 15
meters away from the house, the mother’s body was found in the same frozen state
with their newborn clutched in her arms, who was unaffected by the mysterious
trauma that had occurred that night. In 1996, that child was found paralyzed in a
Catholic convent with his eyes bulging in fear. The comas were clinically diagnosed
as lasting for an undeterminable amount of time, most likely permanently. The
cause remains unknown.

In loving Memory of Melanie K. Horowitz,
You will be missed.

My name is Julian Shaw. I was born on the 4th of June 1988, in the UK before I moved
out to Oregon and attended Lincoln High. Now, I’ve since moved to Toronto to
pursue my dreams competing as an Olympic swimmer after years of lifeguard duty
at kiddy pools. Nintendo, creamy macaroni, road trips; as the song goes, these are a
few of my favorite things. Also, I just started my first attempt as an amateur writer
with a novel inspired by my pet jellyfish. I’m telling you all this beforehand because I
like to let you, my readers, know exactly who’s talking to you.

Have you ever woken up with big red marks on your face from the pillow you slept
on, or along the side of your body? I don’t know about you, but I can’t sleep with any
more than my underwear. This happens to me all the time. However, a couple days
ago, I woke up with a red imprint on my chest, a mark that scared the living God out
of me when I looked in the mirror to brush my teeth that morning. With no other
impressions on my body, I noticed a large hand imprint right over my heart, except
this was most definitely no ordinary hand. It was almost twice the size of my own
when I measured mine against it, and had poke marks where pointed nails appear to
have grabbed along my collarbone. I didn’t look into it too much, and continued on
with my day. I can’t think for shit in the morning. At noon, I had swimming practice
at the pool with my team. Now, as I haven’t yet mentioned, on of my friends on the
team, Connor, hasn’t been coming in for practice for a while. When I walked out of
the showers with my towel that day, my team was standing around in a circle with
our coach. It turns out, Connor had been found paralyzed in his bed. He was taken
to the hospital to be monitored in a coma that could not be explained by anyone.
I did some research, and there are apparently countless cases of spontaneous
comas throughout the world in which perfectly healthy people simply freeze into
vegetables for no apparent reason and never wake up. I was disturbed to find out
later as I visited him in the hospital that they were not able to close his eyelids
because the muscles had kept them wired open. It’s tragic what happened to him,
and to so many people around the world who this inexplicably happens to.

March 22nd, 2011

Now, what I’m about to tell you can be frightening and difficult to wrap your brain
around, but I tell you in my best interest and for your future safety. I woke up the
next morning with another hand mark on my body, just as unsettling and vicious
as the first. Nothing particularly unusual happened that day, except for a message
on Facebook from my little sister Melanie. She’s not actually my little sister, but she
might as well be. I babysat her from ages 6 – 11 and have come to know her family
almost as my own. Opening my inbox, I see 2 untitled messages sent a couple nights
ago that make me realize how seldom I check my Facebook. Here’s a copy-and-paste
of the contents of these 2 messages:

March 21

im scared julian, please help me. everythings so quiet
ive been hearing things at night lately, and the past two nights i think something grabbed
me

i think its in my house right now. can you please come quickly, i don’ t know what to do. i
cant hear mom

March 21

Jlian don;f jlook ay iy . ifd you look ay it. it will gtet yiou

it;s in my roon m righy now. please hh

After reading them, I started to get a sinking feeling in my gut, remembering that
I’m 2 days late reading it. I tried calling Melanie’s house, but no one picked up. After
calling the police, I rushed down to see them myself, only to arrive at a parade of
ambulances and police cars. Melanie and her mother, who she lived with, were
both found paralyzed like cold grey statues with blank eyes. They were almost
completely dehydrated and had low vital signs. There was nothing that could be
done for either of them.

I stayed up pretty late that night trying to figure out what Melanie had been trying
to tell me. At first glance, the second message looked as if she had just gotten back
smashed out of her mind from her first party, but deciphering what I think she was
trying to type, I noticed the message was a warning. It said not look at it, and that
it would get me if I did look at it. It didn’t take long before I realized that whatever
it was, if it was in her room like she was saying, she would’ve had her eyes closed
to avoid looking at it, which explains the scrambled text. Melanie was trying to
warn me about something that was moments away from killing her. But, what I
found most disturbing was what she said earlier in the message, that she had felt
something grab her on the 2 nights preceding the incident.

March 23rd, 2011

This takes us to the present. Last night, it came for me. I thank God that I persevered
through that hell and am alive to tell you all. I got sleepy at around 2 in the morning
and went to bed after my obsession with Melanie’s message. Then, as I was sound
asleep, I heard something thumping around in my room. Remembering Melanie’s
final warning, I kept my eyes shut and pretended I was asleep. It was the most
dreadful sound you could imagine, like a great clacking noise every time it took a
step, and deep, vehement breaths. I heard it moving around in every direction of me,
on the walls, the ceiling, just inspecting the place. I distinctly remember hearing it
knock over my TV, which I found broken on the floor this morning. After maybe 20
minutes of shear terror, I heard it speak. It crawled up next to my ear and started
seething through its teeth, begging me to open my eyes. I resisted the urge as it
screamed louder, “Look at me!” Whatever this thing was, I got the distinct feeling
that it was not from this world. The very presence of it brings a grim and empty
feeling inside. It grasped my leg and squeezed, then clutched my chest and clawed
its hand down my body with a light scrape. Just before it left, it stopped in front of
me for a few minutes and beckoned me to look with terror. The smell was deathly,
as if it had come from a coal mine. I kept my eyes firmly shut, but I could both feel
and hear it just inches from my face.

I’m still not sure what to do tonight, but I remember it ranting on that it will stalk
me every night until the day I die. It is some kind of malicious being that as I’ve
come to realize appears on the 3rd night after it touches you and will freeze you
with fear if you so much as get even a glimpse of it. Whether you believe in the
supernatural or not, this thing is most definitely real. So, these are my parting words
to you. If you see its hand mark on you in the morning, you may rest the next night,
but on the night after you must remain asleep without opening your eyes even a
crack, for the life of you. You will hear it screaming and you will feel it tormenting
your body, but you mustn’t react. It is pure hell; a power beyond our realm.

There was one other curious thing it mentioned before leaving. It said that he stalks
the living one-by-one, and finds its next victim through someone the previous victim
knew. If you don’t know the victim, then you will be protected from this evil. It’s
trying to kill me because one of its victims knew Connor, and Connor knew Melanie,
and Melanie knows me. Now, I’ve told you about my story, and myself, and as it said
last night, that’s enough for someone like you to know me. The only way out is to let
at least 10 strangers know who you are, which is what I’m doing to you right now. I
am sincerely sorry, but I’m saving my own ass. Good luck.

All credit goes to Kieland.

The Well

We were told to stay clear of the well. Most of the time, we did. No one knew why, and no one cared. Down Innsmote Road, the long abandoned row of crumbling houses on the way to school, it lay beneath the shade of a droopy branched willow, in front of the old Leibowitz house. The house itself had fallen down years ago. The expansive section was now consumed in thick weeds and wild flowers, but we seldom played there. We didn't like being amongst the derelict homes and the decaying foundations, and I would run past the well whenever I had to pass it alone. The footpath sloped dangerously close to the wells bare opening, itself hidden in long grass. Where the light touched the top most part of the gaping pit, it's mossy brick inner surface was just visible. Below that, there was only darkness.

Me and Henry walked down Innsmote Road every day after school. Our friendship was an unlikely one. Henry came from a poor town down south. His family name was neither prominent nor wealthy, and it was new in a very old city. Raised as an only child by his mother, Henry had not had a fair life for such a nice kid. Of course I had no idea at the time, I was only young, but his father had been a mad alcoholic. His mother had left town for Henry's sake. He never spoke of this, as he was probably too small to remember it, but we never mentioned his father regardless. It was clear he did not wish to remember him. Henry was not a particularly bright student, either. The day we met was the very first day of school, when he leaned across from his desk to mine and asked if he could copy my answers. The test was for math, hardly my strongest subject, but I beat him up for it anyway, after school. He nearly past out from the sun alone. I felt bad about beating him as I'd done it. He was a short, skinny kid and he couldn't put up much of a fight. I bought him an ice cream that day, and we talked properly for the first time. Afterward we became inseparable. Even though I played football on hot days and he stayed in the library and read, even though he copied my answers in every test, we were best friends.

In the bitter wind and the stinging rainfall, we did not laugh or share the days experiences with each other as usual. We endured the storm together, in silence. We would usually go down Church Street to the arcade in town, but today it was pouring with rain. The storm was one of the worst I have ever seen. The gutters were overflowing like flooded rivers and the bare foundations of the Innsmote houses creaked and groaned in the wind. Surrounded by the constant moaning of the old homes and bombarded by the screeching wind and ice cold rain, we were only more determined to get out and get home. I lived further than Henry, on Mayrary Ave, and I walked hastily, dripping wet. We walked straight ahead, until we reached the well. The slope was more evident than ever today, rainwater rolling down and draining into the hidden pit below. Were anyone other than us to walk past at that point in time, they would have not even have noticed the well mouth, wide open and hungry. We turned to look in it's direction, an unspoken acknowledgment of our fears that we performed daily. It was then that Henry fell. He had misplaced a single step, and collapsed with a painful, muffled cry onto the concrete. Blood from his nose mixed in with the rain and slowly disappeared. As he tried to get up, pushing his body up on one arm and outstretching the other, he slipped. His yells echoed down the empty road. He slid down too fast for me catch his hand. His chin hit the concrete, and he let out a pained yelp. The skin had been ripped deep. I called his name, and ran towards him. The wind struck me hard, and I toppled down. I rolled across the slope, registering a sharp sudden pain in my side, and fell in the swamped weeds, mud soaked through to my skin.

"Henry!", I cried, reaching my arm out blind.

A sob of terror came from up ahead. I forced my eyes open and saw Henry, no more than a foot from where I lay, hanging desperately onto the wall opening. His chin dripped blood. His slippery fingers were only barely keeping hold of the mud covered brick.

"Henry!", I called again, willing myself to get up.

As soon as I began to pull myself out of the weeds the pain in my side burned and sent spasms of pain shaking through my bones. I collapse, in pain, and tried to call his name again. I wanted to get up. I tried again, this time with his screams to guide me as a hand slipped. Once more the pain, the unbearable pain sent me into the dirt, so close to his little fingers.

"Help me!" he screamed over the rain, "Please help me!"

I lifted my head feebly to see Henry's eyes fill with tears. With one last sob of fear, his hand slipped. In an instant he vanished into the well. In that moment, it all went silent. Sound was gone the moment I saw the top his little brown head slip out of view. I heard only the thumping noises, dull hard sounds from far away, and I realized that all I could hear was my best friend hitting the brick well walls as he fell. Ignoring the pain, ignoring the storm, I lifted myself out of the dirt and ran. I didn't stop until I reached Mayrary Ave.

I got home to find my mother waiting on the steps, her face wide eyed and her mouth curled into a scowl.

"Where have you been? Get in here." she hissed.

Her words were in-sonorous and drawn out. I stumbled indoors, leaving wet footprints on the carpet. She slammed the door shut and yelled. She went on and on. I hardly registered a thing she was saying. She screeched about the weather, how worried she'd been. How I could have gotten hurt. I started to cry. At first I could only manage weak sobs, but I eventually found myself curled around my mothers legs, weeping. Her anger was replaced by surprise. Guilt perhaps. She asked what was wrong, why was I crying? I only bawled more, knowing I could never tell her I was ashamed. Ashamed I let my best friend die.

The search for Henry was longer and more painful than I ever imagined it could be. His mother rang us first. I told her I hadn't seen Henry after school that day. I told her I didn't know where he was. What I didn't tell her was that I watched on as Henry fell to his death. What I didn't tell her was that I killed her son. After three weeks Henry's photograph was in newspapers. We saw his mother on the television often. She was crying. It was a local disappearance, and it garnered only local attention. The police spoke to me. Children at school spoke to me. Teachers spoke to me. I told them the same lie I had told Henry's mother. Each time I knew I could never go back. The consequence became worse every time I hid the truth. Eventually I knew I could never tell anyone what had really happened that day. Sometimes I liked to believe it myself, that I had not, for once, walked with Henry that day. That I too was mourning his disappearance, and not his death. The well was never even checked, because I said I had not walked with him that day. A teacher claimed to have seen him walking in the direction of Church Street, and it was presumed he had gone to the arcade. Murder was suspected. Church Street corner was where we met, everyday. After that I took the Church Road route. It was much longer.

By the time I was thirteen no one spoke of Henry anymore. The police search ended indefinitely after a year, having found no evidence. Until any emerged, they could do nothing but wait. Henry's mother left town a year later. As I grew up I came to disbelieve that I had ever known a Henry at all. I told myself that I had been walking home alone the day that Henry boy, the quiet one I never talked to, disappeared. I wondered if they'd ever find him.

By my last year of high school I had made new friends. Mostly footballers, like me. Times changed quickly. We went from playing at the arcade to getting drunk so soon. Girls and cars were more important to me now than cheating on maths tests and buying ice creams.

One day, as I was walking home, I found myself enduring the worst storm our town had seen in eleven years. We had to cancel our after school match. I was devastated. As I heaved through the immense force of the wind and the piercing rain it occurred to me that the Church street was a needlessly long walk home. In weather like this, I was surely better off taking the Innsmote Road. The road was lined with decaying houses. I passed caved in roof's and overgrown rubble, all the while trying to force myself through the ice cold storm. It was as I walked past the crumbling area of pavement that a shiver crawled through my skin, and I turned to see a black pit in the earth, half hidden in the grass. How I had even noticed it, shadowed as it was beneath an overhanging willow branch was beyond me. I slowly turned to continue walking against the storm, just in time to see a length of corrugated iron come howling through the air. I was paralyzed in shock when it struck me, throwing me back and sending the taste of blood rushing into my mouth. I felt myself hit something hard, then light rapidly spiraling away from me. Cold air swept past my face, and the blood rushed to my head as I descended ever further, the light growing ever dimmer in the distance.

When I came to I was in pain. After a pitiful attempt to stand up, I realized I had landed on my leg. Feeling around in the dark, I came across the split bone protruding from my knee, and something wet on my fingers, I screamed, and my cries echo a thousand times, all the way up the well until they faded away outside. With much effort I made myself look up. The speck of light above me was like a distant star. It took me sometime to realize that I was partially submerged. The coldness of the water was only as awful as the smell down there. Underneath me there was water and mud. All around I was surrounded by blackened brick walls. The constant noise of water dripping made me breath heavy. In my distressed state of mind I though I hear someone say my name.

"Who's there?" I yelled, looking around madly into the empty blackness.

No response. I shivered in the cold, staring aimlessly into the darkness. Next to me, someone mumbled something I couldn't make out.

"Who are you?" I screamed, curling myself up close to the wall of the pit.

Someone mumbled louder. A raspy noise. I knew I had heard it. A cold tingle rain down my neck as I made out an unclear shadow against the wall beside me. My hear beat was electric. The thing on the wall began to shuffle towards me, mumbling again louder. I wanted to scramble away, to feel safe in the light. But I couldn't. I was trapped. I was trapped with someone else. The mumbling thing that inched closer and closer. I could feel it's breath now, on my face. Tears streaked down my face. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound emerged. Slowly, I turned to look.

In the dark I could not make out the face precisely, but I saw all I needed. I screamed in horror at the sunken eye sockets, the gaping jaws and the dripping, rotten flesh hanging off what was once, surely, a human face. It's slender hands burst from the water and wrapped around me. It hunched over me, and I finally understood what it was saying when it hissed in my ear:

"I've been waiting for you."
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