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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
It's Always the Quiet Ones Every class has those kids, you know, the ones that looks fragile and weak. They’re ignored throughout the entire year. There’s a reason why no one bugs them.
I am not one of them, I’m those average students on the side line that can socialize like the average human being. I’m not extravagant. I have friends. I do my work. There’s nothing special about me. Although, last year what happened in one of my classes was different.
Edger was one of them, those quiet ones. He didn’t sit at the back of the class like in those cliché stories you read or see in movies. For the first seven months of that school year he was silent. I don’t understand how those kids get away with not answering questions or not going up to the board to write out problems, on presentation days he’d disappear.
On the seventh month of school I’ve started to notice things about Edger. Heck, I wasn’
Creepypasta: With Friends Like TheseCreepypasta: With Friends Like These
You aren’t normally one to suggest stupid outings for the sake of stupid outings, but you and your friends are equal parts bored and stressed about high school starting up again. What better way to de-stress than spending a night in an abandoned house on the edge of town that’s reputedly haunted? Okay, there’s probably many ways that are all better and far less convoluted, but screw logic, you and three of your friends have made the decision and that’s how it’s gonna go down. Errol is the only one who won’t be coming. He said he’d be pretty busy tending to something that came up, although he wished you, Avril, Nathan, and Gary good luck in your ghost hunting.
“You guys ready to get scared?” Gray sniggers as the four of you look upon the desolate structure. You drove your friends out here, seeing as you’re the only one whose parents let you use their car.
The boards over the windows have lon
Creepypasta: The Hangman's OriginCreepypasta: The Hangman’s Origin
The year is 1887 and you are Will Jameson, a photographer for a fairly well-known New York paper. It is a well-paying and fairly secure position. Your current task is to venture into that dying side of America called the Old West, currently on the verge of collapse under the crushing weight of modernization. The rail systems appear to make the country seem smaller every time they are expanded. Fittingly enough, because that’s how you are travelling to the ghost town you are supposed to take pictures of anyhow, via said railway.
Your economy cab is empty, save for one other male passenger and yourself of course. The interior is dimly lit, and the roaring din of the thunderstorm outside doesn’t do much to help visibility. It just makes you all the more thankful for the oil lantern suspended from the ceiling, without which you would trip over your own feet if you got up. Not like the cramped, sparsely appointed cab would give you enough
The Distorted MirrorsPlease note that this is a biography of my encounters with some rather paranormal entities within my second grade year in elementary school. Now, I just want you to know that this all is indeed true, and it's going to be something I never forgot, and can remember vividly. Well, I guess I'll start with how this all started and stuff, and how vivid one's mind and imagination can be.
So, it was the second grade, like I said already, and I was quite the child, but I was cowardly at times, not that it's unusual or anything. Though at the same time, I did have some sense of bravery. It was when it was close to summer, I had exams, though I honestly cannot remember the name; not every detail was with me then, I'm afraid. Instead of being in a normal classroom like normal people, I was just mortified and reluctant to learn that I would be having to spend my week in solitude, and one thing I definitely don't like is solitude, even at that age; at that age, I was horrified of being in small room
I've Got YouHe was falling.
He made no audible sound as he did. Partly because fear had gripped his voice box to the point where he couldn't make a noise and the other half was that he would only get a harsh mouthful of saltwater in response to his cry.
The water was rushing closer to him. Fifty feet. Forty feet. Thirty feet. Twenty.
He had tried to twist his body to grip the edge if the cliff face beside him, but the rough-edged rocks just sliced through the thin skin on his fingers and palms, forcing to let himself just plummet down below.
It was crazy, really. The great Altair, master of assassination, was going to die. Not because of the fall he was taking, but because of his lack of being able to swim.
He was most ashamed of himself.
A small grunt came from his clenched teeth as he made contact with the ocean and right on impact, he began to sink. He bucked his legs upward, trying to stop his sinking but they just flailed, not doing anything to help him.
Ever since he was a child, he had alwa
Valley's End Road - II. JedidiahValley’s End was much like any other road that wound through these sparsely populated hills. Paved to a point with a few homesteads scattered off its sides, and then dwindling to rough gravel, narrowing to smooth packed clay, and finally becoming two wheel ruts with dandelion and blue chicory growing tall down the middle. The mountain dwellers on this end of it did not like to be seen or intruded upon. Urban legends ran rampant, fantastic tales of less-than-human abominations living and breeding and killing. Humans find what they don’t understand to be frightening; they must then create something of which to be frightened, justifying their inability to accept whatever it is they choose not to understand.
Blood tied all the inhabitants at the end of the road. The stories and sightings fueled by outsiders kept it a quiet place, which is how they liked it. The country was rough; thousands upon thousands of square acres of hardwood forest, unforgiving inclines and sudden hidden
Creepypasta: A Game I Cannot WinCreepypasta: A Game I Cannot Win
So. It’s come to this. Eighty-one years of age, and before infirmity has a chance to claim my life I am forced to play Russian roulette with these five faceless men. But it’s not so bad. I know how this will end, and that takes the edge off my trepidation. I look up at the stairs leading up to the cellar door, seeing as we are in my basement, seated around a battered card table. I could make a break for it. But I smirk inwardly, because this will offer an escape in its own way.
I pick up the revolver and put the barrel to my head.
Nothing. I smile and pass it to the figure to my right. He makes no move to pick up the revolver, as I suspected. I pass the gun to the figure to his right, who again, makes no attempt to pick up the weapon. This repeats until I have passed the revolver all around the table, and none of the faceless men have moved in the slightest.
I pick up the revolver a second time, and put the barrel to my head again befo
Maverick You are sitting on your bed, bundled in your blankets, music blaring in your headphones. Your gaze lifts from your laptop screen and you look out over the room. It's dark. Pitch black to be more specific. The moon is nowhere in sight tonight, an overlay of storm clouds hang overhead. You sigh, storms are not your thing, the loud noise and sudden bursts of light unnerve you a bit. The music stops. "Dammit" you mutter. The song was no where near over. Your web browser must have become unresponsive or YouTube was experiencing problems once again.
You decide against staying on the internet tonight, none of your friends are on skype, and it's 3:30 in the morning. You gently shut your laptop, not bothering to shut it down completely, and place it near your bed. After placing your computer on the ground, you decide to get situated on your bed so that you can try to get a good night's sleep. As you lay your head down, a flash of
Culmus To describe the night in one word, the only word I’d have chosen would have been wet.
There were small puddles glistening in the streetlight, the air was thick and moist, the sidewalk had that certain darker color after rainfall. The night sky hovered overhead, but it was difficult to see any stars. The city pollution made sure of that. The houses and buildings on the sidewalks had no lights on.
In order to get home, I had to follow a path of orange streetlights. I remember that they were reflecting in the puddles in the wet street pavement. I was walking along the sidewalk. The sidewalks had large trees, bushes and fences nearby, so I was conscious of the irrational fear that somebody would jump out at me.
As it turned out, that wasn’t what I was supposed to be afraid of.
I turned around a street corner, and heard a loud banging noise, like a terrible drummer practicing in his ga
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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