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ChristmastideThe cottage hearth beams warm and bright,
The candles gaily glow;
The stars emit a kinder light
Above the drifted snow.
Down from the sky a magic steals
To glad the passing year,
And belfries sing with joyous peals,
For Christmastide is here!
Candy Apple Punch
6 cups cranberry-apple drink
3 cups water
15 hard cinnamon candies
1 (6-ounce) can thawed limeade concentrate, undiluted
Combine all the ingredients in a large pitcher. Cover and chill 8 hours or until candies are dissolved. Pour mixture into a large Dutch oven, and cook over medium heat until thoroughly heated
The Creepypast Survival Guide1.Mirrors and darkness don't mix.
2.Actually mirrors are a general "NO", In creepypasta world, there is nothing more sinister.
3.There is zero chance of survival if you look at the thing that no one else can see or answer its question incorrectly.
4.If you are alone at night in a creepy mental institution, take some time to consider what the fuck are you doing there, then, if it is appropriate to do so, leave.
5.Avoid going to places where everyone else who went there never came back or died inexplicably.
6.If someone stops your vehicle at night and asks to come with you, it would probably be in your best interests to politely decline.
7.Killing is the last method of survival, use it sparingly but without fear.
8.WHO WAS PHONE? is always a good thing to ponder. Also who the hell answers a phone while kissing a dead person's sexy daughter. A douche is who.
9.Get a simple .38 revolver. Load it with 2 silver bullets. If you really feel there is no chance to come alive out of a situation,
CreepyPasta- Two years agoYou've been dating your girlfriend almost two years now. You often stay late over the summer and on weekends and arrive home long after the rest of your family go to sleep.
Every night, you drive the deserted rural roads back home from a pleasant evening at her house, but you become overwhelmed by fears that you will arrive home to find your family dead in their beds. Each night, you peek into your sister's room and see she's fine and hear the reassuring rumble of your father's snore as you pass your parents' door.
You chuckle at your silly worries and drift off to sleep. Finally, one morning, you decide to tell your mother about your late-night fears amidst some jovial conversation for a nice laugh. As you tell her, a concerned look comes over her face. She sweeps the hair away from her face as she says,
"Oh honey, you know we were all shot almost two years ago."
You scream as you see the gaping bullet hole in her forehead.
Lost Episode - Boss RossBefore Bob Ross had a career television show, he shot his own home videos from his basement. This was even before he was in the Air Force. His brother, Jim Ross, recovered most of the tapes from Bob's ex-wife's home in 1995 before the fire that burned it down. There was one particular home video that disturbed him greatly, which he describes in the following text.
Most of Bob's tapes were almost generally the same as The Joy of Painting. They were fun to watch as this was an earlier version of his work and he had more of a cartoonish style back then.
I remember the last tape I watched. The video was labeled 'Joy of Painting' so I assumed that's where the title for his show came from. The tape started the same, typical way you'd see on the real show. He was smiling in his basement with a blank canvas and a cart of paints, ready to spill his imagination and make it come to life.
I noticed most of the paints on his palette were of dark reds and blacks; there were no blues, yellows, or any
CreepyPasta- One of ThemAny night, around ten or eleven PM, take yourself to a flat, open area where you can walk in a straight line for two minutes or so without running into anything. Once there, face in the direction you plan to walk, with your arms at your sides and your hands relaxed. Close your eyes and take a deep breath. At precisely 11:09 and 20 seconds, start walking. Be sure to take one step every second - no more, no less. Do not open your eyes, and do not hesitate. Count your steps in your head as you go. On the one hundred and eleventh step, say the word, "One," out loud and stop.
Your breath will catch in your throat and your hair will stand on end. For the next ten seconds, you will be unable to move a single muscle in your body, no matter how hard you try. After these ten seconds, you will be able to move and breathe again - however, you will then start to feel the sensation of cold, metal claws seizing each of your fingers by the base and plucking them clean off of your hand. It will not hur
Cold life in mirrorLike always I sitting and stare at world from mirror. I don't need to know how real world is. I looked around. Everywhere was white walls with a lot of mirrors, gray fog hide everything what was a bit farer. I heard quiet whispers. I lived here my whole existence. But I feel that I need something. I never was happy like others were. I don't understand why they smiling, laughing and spend so much time with somebody...
Today I again watching what happens in my master's residence. There wasn't anything special. Everyone doing things which they usually do. So, like always this annoying girlie starts bang to one of mirrors screaming my name. Why she everyday must disturb me... I come to mirror on which other side she was.
-DONT TOUCH MY MIRROR!- I yelled at her. I really hate when others make my mirrors dirty. But she ignored it and smiled to me like fool.
-Come play with us!- she said
Great... I have here job to do and she wants playing. I looked after her. Dead Mary and masked man were he
July 15, 1897
"No! No, no, no! The note is 'F', not 'A'! Preform the song correctly the first time and don't disappoint me any further."
"Start back at the top. For every mistake you make you will repeat the song that many times over until you can finish the song without making a single error."
Abiding his mother's orders, Cyril continued to play his beloved violin. Although he loved playing the violin, he didn't particularly care for his mother's harsh words and punishments. Cyril didn't want to disappoint her, so he continued to play.
"Cyril! The note on the measure is 'F'! How much mired do you wish to anger me!?" His mother scowled and spoke with disdain.
"I'm s-sorry.. I'm trying, I really am! See?" Cyril tried to play the song again, but was interrupted by his enraged mother.
"No, you don't 'try' to play correctly. You will play correctly. You're a noble. You shouldn't be such a disappointment. Nobleman are supposed to set an example amongst the common p
in flesh and bloodHe finds her unassumingly. She's just standing there, cheeks ruddy, bundled in a forest green jacket lined with fake—he thinks—fur. He finds her, hands in pockets, feet atop the grass. The light that floods the panes of her face casts dark shadows beneath her eyes and along her jaw and he thinks for a moment that she might be kind of beautiful.
"Why are you standing before the Eiffel Tower and looking so sad?"
Her head snaps. He counts, one, two, three, seconds, and then she turns her face upward toward the monument in front of the two. They are alone. She doesn't say anything and then she's saying something and he has to turn his attention from the angles of her face to her brown, brown, brown eyes.
"Do you think it's lonely?" Of course not, he thinks. Of course not.
But all he can utter is no as he stares up at it. When she asks him why he sputters and turns to face her again, and sh
Creepypasta: ThreadbareCreepypasta: Threadbare
No one knows the name of the homeless bloke who lived under the overpass, who he was, or where he came from. Most assumed him to be just another person with a physical or possibly mental handicap that kept him from working, like countless others within the inner core of Detroit. You, being a kind soul at your most basic, thought you would give him a gift possibly more precious than a handout. You thought it would be a profound gesture of kindness to sit down with the man and ask him about his life.
As you approach him, lying in his makeshift lean-to and looking out on the world that cast him out, you don’t feel scared in the least. He has never exhibited any signs of hostile behaviour in the four years he has dwelled beneath the overpass, and in fact seems to show an admirably content attitude on his station in life.
“Hello, do you need someone to talk to? I have plenty of spare time, it’s Sunday so I don’t have work or anything” yo
Mocking Bird”Hush Little Baby, don't say a word.” The voice came from the naked girl, covered in grime and blood as she staggered through the market, blood flowing freely from the deep cuts in her wrists and legs, yet still she staggered on, a blood stained shard of glass in her hand, she stared blindly forward, with dark unseeing eyes, ”Mommy's going to bye you a mocking bird.” She sang, like a broken thing, her voice near tears. No one listened to her, as they pushed past her, as if she didn't even exist. The street was crowded, yet they all parted, giving her a way, However, other then that, they ignored her. They all knew that she was beyond help. ”And If that Mockingbird don't sing... The thing sang, her voice starting to crack, she knew what was coming, the man was coming. Her throat was raw, she had been singing for hours, yet, of it's own volition, her body still sang. ”Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring.” her leg
Ritual of Death Sometime in the 90’s, a group of children were reportedly attacked outside their school building. The school was nearly vacant, and the kids were only there for an after-school club. They told police that they were held prisoner inside while a creature prowled around outside. One boy and a girl tried to make a run for it, and insisted that they were attacked by a creature with many faces.
The boy told them that the creature bragged about having 1000 faces, and offered to show them every one of the faces it had. They both refused to look as the creature’s head began to change. The boy reported that they stood there, facing the direction opposite the creature with their eyes closed, for the longest time until the creature had finished. It then whispered a few words to the boy before disappearing.
The boy only remembers one thing from the words the creature had said, and he called it the “Ritual of Death”. Po
Creepypasta: The World within Our OwnCreepypasta: The World within Our Own
Well, here you are. A city boy who had just moved in with their uncle in Williamsbrook, a town with a population of 223 including you. Barely enough to qualify as hamlet material, really. You are currently standing about a hundred or so yards from the barn that is your destination. You know what you will find inside: nothing. These rural legends always amount to jack shit, and no wonder. If there was really anything odd out here it would have been investigated to death by all those paranormal news things that are so popular on the Internet, and they never turn up anything substantial either. Buncha hicks with too much time and boredom probably got drunk and started spreading the first sightings of him.
The one they call the Watcher.
Those who’ve claimed to have seen him always maintained it was around the locale of this barn. Before long it became a commonly accepted part of the myth that it was his dwelling. As you approach the barn you thin
The Boogeyman WatchesDon't misbehave, young one. For if you do, He will come for you. Usually at night, either when you are at your weakest such as being tired and
fatigued, or when are you are asleep. He goes by many names, and he has been around for so long that even he doesn't remember his original name and
all he knows is that he was given a task: To terrorize and devour children, especially ones who misbehave since he believes that eating these will give
him more strength to be evil, while there are those who believe that he takes them to some place that is so horrifying that they are never seen again.
Some believe that this place is either Hell or another dimension that is just as bad. And he always watches you, no matter what you do. So behave, and he might
let you live. You may only know him as one name that is common for him: The Boogeyman, and God help you if he finds you
Fact and FancyHow dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol s
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