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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
Creepypasta: It Never EndsCreepypasta: It Never Ends
I ask you a question, what is right and what is wrong? You might say something like murder is wrong, and dying for a just cause is right. But in the end, how are the two different? They each involve death. Which brings me to my main point: all life depends upon the ending of another’s to exist. Even humans must eat plants and usually animals, and in some odd cases other humans as well. Life could best be portrayed as an endless staircase, constantly turning back in on itself in a quantum Mobius strip. Remember that all life exists solely because it caused another life pain at some point, which in turn had inflicted pain to life before it. That is a central theme in the story I will tell you.
First, proper introductions are in order. I am Sin, with a capital S. I could best be described as the abstract concept of violating the natural order that we call sin, given sentience and a semblance of form. I make my presence felt every day in the life of every m
innocencelast night, i dreamt the devil
tried to slaughter me with a
train. the tracks began at the
back hall and ended at the front
door, pouring outside. how these
things appeared in my home, i cannot
he was not the caricature you may be
imagining; oh, no. he was perhaps
as old as the boy who died this winter,
roughly twenty five summers. ebony
curls sat wickedly on his ears, and his
eyes were two lumps of coal and fire,
sharp enough to paralyze.
i locked him in the garden, eventually.
he found a way back in, of course
(being the devil must have perks).
i retrieved the pocket knife the colour
of motor oil from my nightstand
and stabbed him three times, in the belly.
he bled out all over, staining the picture
frame, the carpet, the wallpaper. i imagined
it was sin, not blood; that i was healing, not
but it was blood; he was human, after all.
as they took him away to the hospital, i watched
him grimace in pain. guilt seeped through my
skin like coffee th
Creepypasta: Mirror, MirrorCreepypasta: Mirror, Mirror
Humans are vain, self-absorbed creatures. If I, once a trusted angel and now a Daemon of myth, am aware of that, then surely they know it on at least some basic level too. My eventual corruption and fall from grace should come as no surprise; I suspect Adonai himself always had his doubts in my purity. I am after all in a prime position to see them at their most selfish and otiose as well. You see, I am a shapeshifter who dwells in the space between the mirror and the reflection.
In my newfound role I stalk my chosen victim through the reflective surfaces in his or her abode. I imitate their every movement as they preen in front of my chosen mirror. I look on from the polished surface with disgust as they bitch and moan under their breath about first-world problems. And just when I can’t stand them any longer, that is when I start to have my fun.
I begin to purposely put flaws in my imitation, and as they look at me thinking they see their own reflecti
MonsterSince you were a child
you have been checking your wardrobes and under your beds for monsters
But what you don't know that there already is a monster in your life
Always following you
Always with you
Until you die
I guess you don't know what I'm talking about right now
We humans forget that there's a monster inside all of us
Locked in a cage in your head
For the right moment for you to snap and break open the cage for it so it can take control
That monster is our insanity
A raging beast that is inside of us all
But one day cage will break
And the beast will be released for it to rampage
Because I askedThe fingers were now black, stained with blood. I sighed as I curled them back into a fist. I’m inside The Black Forest Asylum, hiding in one of the many janitorial closets. My arm’s bleeding profusely, due to its recently impaling, thanks to the demonic little girl I just met a couple of minutes ago. I place my hand back on the wound, trying to apply pressure.
Why? Just why? Why can’t I have an easy day? Just once!
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.” I hear the girl’s playful, yet sadistic, voice.
I groan, Please…give me five minutes! I keep quiet, hoping that maybe she’ll walk past the room where the closet I’m currently hiding is in, but I already know that’s asking for too much.
I hear the door open shortly followed by footsteps, enter the room. I hold my breath, trying my best not to make a sound. As I do, I silently curse The Sender for bringing me here.
“I can smell your fear…” I hear
Creepypasta: LogicLara sat upside down on the sofa. Her long, curly black hair was hanging down, brushing up against the hardwood floor.
“Lara, your mom doesn’t like you sitting like that.” Her father said, looking up from his book.
Lara had to struggle to get to a normal position. She wasn’t quite used to missing half of her left arm yet. “So…” She started, shifting on the leather couch to find a comfortable position. “When is she going to get here?” Lara’s mom had left to pick up a new child. Literally. After the long and tedious adoption process, it was time to pick her up.
“Should be soon…” He replied, glancing down at his watch. “Remember what we told you. Don’t-“
“-ask about the scar. I’m nine, I remember things Daddy.”
The bolt lock on the front door clicked and the door swung open. “I don’t want you see you tracking dirt in the house- I’ve heard you’re pretty
The Virtual Reality Experiment A few years before the time this writing took place, there was an experiment to see if a phenomenal invention could potentially revolutionize the world of video games forever.
The invention was a virtual reality console that would actually put eager players into the game so they could vividly experience it instead of just play it. It sounded like something from Science Fiction, but the developers had spent years building it.
The console was to be called the “Immersion”, and it would have instantly made every other console obsolete. It wasn’t like the kind of system where you have to wear a visor over your eyes like the Oculus Rift and still hold a controller. It would have generated an entire virtual world unlike any other before it for players to explore. The game would generate sounds, smells, sights, even a temperature. Once the gamer began playing, it was as if they had stepped into another world for an
CreepyPasta/ can you see them?Close your eyes. Can you see them? Count yourself lucky if you don’t know what I’m talking about.
Ever since I was little, I could see “things”. No, I’m not crazy, or a schizophrenic. It’s kind of hard to explain, but when I close my eyes, I see them. Them, being what I call, “bits”. I call them bits because they’re just bits and pieces. They haunt me. Torture me. I’ll tell you about them, if you let me.
When I was a child, I had a very wild imagination. Being that I would easily scare myself into thinking there was a monster under my bed. I would imagine the most fucked up things, and they would plague my mind until I couldn’t stay awake any longer. I wouldn’t say that this is the result of what’s happening to me now, but it does have something to do with it.
Anyway, I would see things when I closed my eyes. The bits… they’re kinda… scary… I guess. If you could call a darkened
Creepypasta: Pretty Little ThingsCreepypasta: Pretty Little Things
Isn’t it funny how the things that tickle our imaginations as children seem terrifying in perspective when we grow, and vice versa? Even time itself, which seems naught but a blessing to a child, appears increasingly ravaging and crippling to an adult through its bastard offspring, “age”. Eventually it is so akin to the grim specter of Death itself that it turns our bones to ash and, except in extraordinary cases, erases all memory we ever lived. But I am above such things. I have lived for all times and for all ages, and all because of Theresa.
Theresa is a doll of the porcelain variety, although that is like saying that the revolver which was used to assassinate Archduke Ferdinand and kicked off World War I was .32 in calibre. What I’m trying to say is that just thinking of Theresa as a doll is to miss the underlying subtext of what she represents. To illustrate my point, I found Theresa in my bathtub when I was filling it wit
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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