A Haunted House Story


I do not have a name, but I’ve been called many things. I have been called a demon, a ghost, a poltergeist, a spirit and even the boogeyman. However, I have no memory from before this incorporeal existence to confirm or deny any such names. I have no eyes yet I can see, I have no ears yet I can hear. I do not have a body, I have no shape. If I strain my will I can mimic a human’s. If I will it I can move objects with my thoughts. However, both take a great toll on me and grow more and more difficult as the number of witnesses increases. I do not know what I am, but I know am very old.

I can not escape the property of the house I was born in. An old 1937 American Foursquare. A very square looking home sitting in a rather average American suburb. My cage reaches as far as the sidewalk where I can watch people pass by but never follow. I do not believe I was born with the house as my memories only reach as far back as near the end of World War II. I lived with the Stockley family at the time. William Stockley was the master of the house and was married to his wife Ann. They had three children, two boys and a young girl named Ashley. Both boys joined the war and never returned. Like any young thing I craved attention and tortured the family with mischief. If the Stockleys could not find something, it was because I hid it. If they heard sounds at night, it was me banging on the walls.

My youthful antics never scared the Stockleys away. Time, however, made much faster work. Ashley had grown up, married and moved away. William and Ann stubbornly stayed in the home till they both grow old. One night, not long after the 70’s had started, William sat in his study reading while Ann slept. William suffered a heart attack and died on the floor. He did not join me as a spirit of any kind, he just simply ceased being alive and I could do nothing to aid him. It was the first time I truly realized how helpless my existence was. Ann moved in with her daughter and I never saw any of the Stockleys again.

I was left abandoned for a while after that. I felt loneliness for the first time. However, soon a new family moved into the home. I remember it was around the time a nuclear scare happened not far from the home. Protests were a topic of conversation as the Grahams had moved in. Donald and Maria Graham and their two children Mark and Robert. I was much more reclusive with the Grahams. I was much more brooding and withdrawn. Always watching, but no longer trying to be heard. I had long since stopped trying to test my limits.

The Grahams lived a rather uneventful life. I watched them for years go about their dull lives. I kept my distance, stayed unattached. They grow older and eventually left. They moved out west for a better job. This lead to the Youngs moving in. A modern family for a more modern age. Jane and Hank were the parents, both worked for a living. Elizabeth was their daughter, the kind of girl that would put posters of then-popular boy bands on her room walls. James was the youngest and most fascinating in the family.

James was broken and everyone else in the family ignored it. He was thirteen when I first met him. As I observed him, he observed others much the same way. He would spend hours alone and the rest of his family seemed happy to be away from him. His room was his sanctuary; a place he could be his true self. He changed when he left his room, he faked normalcy. Any breach of his sanctuary caused him to turn violent. The first time I saw this was when he nearly broke his older sister’s arm slamming it in the door. So his family avoided trying to break into his world.

As he grew older, James grew worse. He had a terrible fascination with death. What started with books and pictures grew into him sneaking corpses of small animals into his room. When he was fourteen he started to sneak out of the house at night. Going where I could not follow and coming back hours later. He had a habit of writing when he was upset. Often words or phrases in repeat like a mantra. Most often he would call his family and anyone else around him a liar. He seemed to think that everyone around him lied to him when they spoke of things like love and wanting the best of him. He hated them for it. He then started to collect knives.

It all came to a conclusion when he was fifteen. After one of his night trips out he came home with a handgun wrapped in a towel. The kind with a clip and sliding barrel, I had never seen one outside of what books and newspapers I could read around the house. He calmly grabbed a nasty looking knife with at least a 7-inch blade, out of a table drawer. He stuck the handgun in the back of his pants and calmly and carefully snuck into his sister’s room. He looked at her sleeping in her bed for a moment before grabbing a pillow and violently holding it over her face with one hand. He took his knife with the other hand and started stabbing the knife into the blankets his sister occupied. She screamed for a moment into the pillow but repeated stabs to her chest and lungs prevented her from giving much resistance.

When Elizabeth stopped moving James looked down at his work. After he was content he slowly started walking to his parents’ room. No longer comfortable just observing I tried to warn them. After a bit of effort, I managed to knock a lamp by their bedside off a table causing it to smash on the floor. They both awoke, but were completely unaware of the danger heading towards them. James walked into their room and saw that they were no longer sleeping. In a single motion, he dropped his bloody knife and pulled out his gun. It was still dark and his parents did not have time to figure out what their son was holding before he pulled back the slide on the pistol and fired several shots into each of them.

James looked at each of what used to be his parents and simply walked away. He went back to his room, pulled out another clip for his gun, collected his knife and started walking towards the front door. I realized he was not going to stop. He was going to keep killing till the police killed him. I was horrified and furious as he walked toward the end of my cage. I focused all of my will power on him, trying to stop him from moving. In a flash, my point of view had changed. I was now holding a gun and stopped several feet from the door. I had possessed him. I was in control of his body, but I did not know for how long. I pulled the slide back on the gun like James had done not long before and put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. With a thud, I was once again watching a boy bleeding on the floor, lifeless.

The police arrived not long after. The house was closed off, the bodies collected. It all seemed to go by in a blur. It was not long till I was alone again. I could hear people talk as they passed the house. Another version of what happened emerged from the murder-suicide the police had reported. They said that this house is haunted. That a spirit had possessed the boy to kill his family and then himself. Perhaps it was because they could not comprehend anyone doing what James had done. However, I never felt more alone.

Am not crazy

-This story is written in response to the creepy pasta book club and inspired by the book. “Them, adventures with extremists”

“Am not crazy” my patient liked to remind me. That meeting would mark the last of the  peace and balance my mind possessed. I am Doctor Nathan North, my job was to examine a man named John Bonsaint. Mr. Bonsaint is charged with murder, circumstances of which were described as gruesome to me. I was not to judge John’s innocence but merely if he was mentally fit for trial. Mr. Bonsaint had a long record of paranoia and delusions that range anywhere from men in black suits too Lizard men secretly infiltrating the highest levels of the government.

We spoke in length, however at the time I saw little value in his opinions. He told me he was framed, that he know too much. One cloudy evening he was found by the police in his apartment with the still warm blood of his girlfriend on his hands. Despite my warnings to John that am not a Lawyer or Judge, he rambled on about the affair anyway. “She was already bleeding out when I awoke from a nap. I was trying to help her! But the door, it was unlocked, I always lock the Door!” The Media had already judged John guilty. Uncovering many of Mr. Bonsaint’s online activities. Posting anti government rants and debating the existence of chemtrails were all common. However the most damning of his posts however came just days before the murder.

“My girlfriend…we been dating for a year and a half now. But I don’t know her, I’ve never met her family. She evades questions about her childhood. I thought I loved her….but she always seems to be watching me. Am starting to think…she might be one of them.”

Despite all the delusion and paranoia, I still find John fit for court. He was in no way dangerous, not as restrained as he was. Nor did he seem as if he would hurt himself. He know what was going on, and wished to fight his case in court. He even told me he hoped the judge would allow the media so he can “air all their dirty secrets” once he got his chance on the stand. After bidding him goodbye I happened to notice a man in a black suit signing some kind of paperwork. I couldn’t help but shake my head.

Such was the last of my involvement in the Bonsaint case. The trial date was set, however despite Johns wishes the media’s cameras would have to stay outside. I started to notice things John opened something in me. The way people pretended not to stare at me on the train home, a car with tinted windows I did not recognize sat parked across the street from my house. Even people I passed on the street started to seem suspect to me. I dismissed it all as paranoia at first, but my eyes had been opened and I could not close them again.

I could hear helicopters as I tried to sleep. Every night, they pass over my house. The unmistakable sound of spinning rotors waking me from sleep. Try as I might, I could not spot the copters in the darkness. Were they flying without lights? Spying on my little corner of the city? Or were they spying on me? I tried to question my wife on how she could sleep though such noise, but she refused to acknowledge hearing anything. She had been acting strange ever since the Bonsaint case, and I started to look at her differently.

Researching online I found that I was not alone in my experiences. Others have heard the helicopters and some have even seen them. They called them Black helicopters, the more I researched the more I found others who opened my eyes. I was being watched, perhaps Bonsaint really did know something, so now they are watching me. I made sure to unplug my webcam but still felt eyes on me at all times. Every now and again i see my wife peering into the room, trying to see what I was doing. She has been so odd as of late. I tried to recall how much I know her.

I only have been married to Linda for a year now, and dating for a year before that. Two years, not all that much time in the grand scheme of things. I Had already been a psychologist working for the state. I could feel her eyes on me, watching me always. Who was she? She had been sent to spy on me. I felt used, my life a lie. I was a puppet for someone high on the food chain. How long had they been using me? Influencing me? Using me to deem who is crazy and who is not?

I confronted my “wife.” She denied everything as you would suspect. She quickly made a phone call to someone. Her bosses? My memory of that night stops there. I awoke strapped to a bed. The men in suits watching my every move. I could see the smile on his face when he said I killed her. They set me up, the bastards framed me just like Bonsaint. The men in suites, and Black Helicopters. They control everything, we are all puppets to them. Who lives and who dies, who is crazy and who is not, are all in their control. Before they send me to court they will sit me in front of a nice man with a note pad. As I have done so many times before. I know just what to say to him. “Am not crazy”

Creepy and True: Face Blindness


Face Blindness, Prosopagnosia, is a disorder that impairs your ability to recognize faces. While other cognitive functions remain the same you have trouble recognizing the faces of your friends, family, and even your own. In some cases your brain will tell you recognize strangers you never met before. The difference between a friend and a stranger can be broken down to a specific part of the brain, and at times broken. Think of that the next time you look in the mirror, or meet up with a friend.

Shadow of memorys

There exists a monster that feeds not on blood and meat but your mind and memory’s. A creature that is made of shadows, it is incorporeal. It cannot be harmed by any material weapon. It lurks in moments of forgetfulness and déjà vu. Each time it strikes you lose a bit of yourself. Stealing your past, who you are. Your body may live on, but the ego and super-ego are dead. Only a shell is left behind. It is another type of death.



“Staring” Alice thought to herself “Why is this woman staring at me?” It was early, and Alice commuted to work by bus. It was often busy, and many looked at their phones or the windows without giving much mind to their fellow commuters. However on this trip, the elderly woman who recently sat across from her would stare at her wordlessly. Alice gave a nervous “Hi” but was not greeted back. So she sat there, tapping her feet, looking at her phone, doing anything not to look back at the petite white haired old woman. Once her stop neared she quickly pulled the yellow string that signaled the driver to stop and got up. She barely waited for the bus to open its doors before jumping off.

Working at a restaurant was stressful enough but it always felt like the other staff where out to get her. Often stealing her tables, or gossiping behind her back. She once asked her manager about it, but only got a “Work it out between you” as a reply. After clocking in, she could hear her coworkers giggling behind her, she turned towards them and they turned and walked away. This went on through the night. Her paranoia was made worse when as the tables she waited acted strangely. All day she caught the costumers staring at her from the corners of her eyes, they would quickly look away once she made eye contact. She could feel eyes on her constantly. The anxiety was becoming too much as she retreated to the bathroom. Washing her face and taking deep breaths. The noise of footsteps turns her attention to the door; she moves into a stall and locks the door.

Her blood boiling Alice holds in a scream of anger. She can hear the muffled sounds of voice outside the restrooms. She know they had to be talking about her, she felt like she could feel there uncaring hate. Her breathing was growing heavier and her head pounded in pain. She wanted to cry, but that only give everyone more ammo to insult her. She slowly gained the courage to step out of the stall, when she noticed something, or someone ahead of her. The creature looked humanoid in shape and size, but hideous growths where on its face.  She remained still for a moment before noticing the sink under the monster, it moved with her as she touched her face. The glass of the mirror shined with the lights of the bathroom. She quickly ran to the sink and tried to wash them off her face, the dark wart like objects would not wash away. Panicking she started to dig her nails into her face cutting and ripping at them. However the objects now looked worse than before.

Alice burst out of the bathroom with one arm trying to cover her face; she felt the eyes of everyone in the restaurant as she ran for the kitchen. She could hear the yelling of a chief, but ignored it as she grabbed a knife off magnetic strip that kept it in place. She ran back to the bathroom, this time with panicked looking cooks after her. Once in front of the mirror she hurriedly started to cut her face, peeling chunks of skin off like the shavings of an apple. She felt a force tackle her to the ground and yelling “What are you doing!” Her mind soon went blank; before her sight went black she watched a hand pull the knife out of her clenched fist.

Alice was unsure how long she been out, her face itched. She went to scratch but could not move her arms. The room was bright, and she could see straps holding her hands down. Looking around she noticed an older woman in a light blue uniform, and a white coat over top of it. Alice felt defiant towards her current situation. Her mouth was dry, and it hurt to speak. However she managed to speak “Did I get them off? I just wanted to stop them from staring at me. Did I get the things off me?” The doctor frowned at her and pulled out a needle then injecting it into an IV feeding into Alice’s arm. “Am going to give you something to rest” She said with a pitying look on her face.