Hey, it’s Spooky Boo. Welcome to Spooky Boo’s Creepypasta and True Scary Stories. Today I have for you 3 creepypasta stories that will keep you up and night and haunt your dreams.
First, Thank you to my Patrons Oliver and BubbleSlayer, and all of the Patreon members for their support. Thank you for being a Spooky Boo Club member.
I’d like to invite you to watch Creature Features with me on Saturday nights on YouTube where you can chat with the fans of the show. We have a lot of fun chatting about the movies and the horror host Vincent Van Dahl, Tangella, and Mr. Livingston while fun guests are interviewed. Get the show time in your area at www.creaturefeatures.tv.
Now let’s begin…
Story One
TITLE: Midnight Run
AUTHOR: jdeschene
LINK: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Midnight_Run
Duncan walked through the dark and deserted park. The smell of rain-soaked earth and pavement wafted to his nostrils. The pale moonlight reflected off the slick concrete of the path before him. He was palpably and starkly alone.
These late night walks had been his habit of late. He needed them, almost. They were his only chance throughout the hectic day to be still and alone with his thoughts. His mind always ran to the two women he loved best: his girlfriend, Nicola, and his best friend, Gabby. Yes, he really did love them both more than anyone else in the entire world. They had even edged out his beloved little sister.
But there was a problem. Duncan had promised himself to Nicola on a cold December evening, months before the April night a week ago when Gabby professed her love for him. Before hearing those words, he could not have imagined anyone other than Nicola ever capturing his heart. Now he wasn’t so sure.
“I’ve been chasing you for so long,” Gabby had said. “You’ve never noticed. So much time has passed me by, and it’s my own fault.”
It was true. In all honesty, he had never considered the possibility of a romantic future with Gabby before. The thought had never once crossed his mind. He hadn’t even questioned this oversight until now, he who was once so desperate for love that not a single woman he met went unappraised. Why now was he so shaken by this person who, despite being the closest thing he had to a best friend, had never taken up more than the tiniest corner of his consciousness. Was it simply because he knew now that she wanted him? Was he really so shallow that this could be the reason?
Duncan’s thoughts were interrupted by a rustling up ahead. He thought he could just make out a figure concealing itself in a bush nearby. Terror froze him. He stood motionless, waiting for some indication of the other person’s intentions.
The figure slowly stepped out from its hiding place. Footsteps clicked rhythmically on the pavement. Duncan could now see her, fully illuminated by the moonlight.
“Gabby?” he asked. Yes, there was no mistaking it was her, but what was she doing here? She lived across town, had long professed her fear of walking alone at night, and never had any knowledge of Duncan’s walks. Duncan looked her up and down as he waited for an answer. She seemed pale. Her eye makeup had run, leaving dark streaks down each cheek. Her lips formed a pitiful frown.
“Gabby,” Duncan said again. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
Gabby said nothing, but looked at him forlornly. Slowly, she raised her hand and pressed it to her chest just below her neck. She turned her head and began to shake as if she were weeping, but no sound could be heard. Duncan moved toward her, but she quickly held up her hands, stopping him midstep. Before he could speak again, Gabby darted back into the bushes.
“Gabby, wait!” Duncan called out. He followed, scrambling through branches and thorns. Sticks snapped. Dead leaves squished beneath his step. Before long, Gabby had led him out of the park and into the dark woods beyond. He struggled to keep up, always just barely keeping her in his sights.
“Gabby!” he shouted. A surprising wave of emotion rose within him. He was not usually such an expressive person, but knowing his beloved Gabby was in pain, and now running from him, filled him with something strong. Tears began to flood his eyes, blurring his vision even more. Now, all he had was the sound of Gabby moving through the forest to guide him.
“Gabby,” he called out once more. “Stop, please!” He took as deep a breath as his frantic pace would allow. “I love you!”
A double reading, featuring “Midnight Run.”
Gabby’s footsteps abruptly stopped. Duncan stopped running. The only thing Duncan could hear was his own labored panting as he forced the air in and out of his burning lungs. He stood doubled over, waiting for his heart rate to slow. When at last his chest stopped pounding, he straightened up and looked around. The sight that met his eyes made his blood run cold.
He saw a figure swaying in the breeze, hanging by its neck from a nearby tree. It was Gabby. From her color and stiffness, Duncan could tell she had been there for hours.
Written by Jdeschene
Content is available under CC BY-SA
Story Two
TITLE: The Inkwell
AUTHOR: C.Alexander
LINK: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/The_Inkwell
The words flow from my fingertips, producing sentences and paragraphs. The dim light of my computer monitor is a strain on my eyes – and I’m finding it difficult to continue. I sit here in my study, nursing a scotch, writing my next story in this familiar environment. I’ll soon be unable to write, for I fear my time is coming to an end. This all happened because of the inkwell. It’s pure evil. No matter how much it helps you, it’s a curse. I write this, in hopes that you can avoid the same mistakes I made. Trust me… you don’t want to end up like me. No matter the reward, the ends will never justify the means. Dreams are fun… but they always come at a price when you take shortcuts. I know this now. Please… just stay away from the inkwell’s call. It’s the voice of a devil, masquerading as your guardian angel and muse.
Let’s start with who I am – my name is Sam, and I’m a writer. I’ve been a writer for a while now, but I’ve always aspired to it. I wrote a little bit in college, but largely never had time. I was always kept busy with my studies, and socializing with others. I finally found the time to write at my boring office job – where I occupy a space for a living. I spent half of my days there staring at a blank page, attempting to make progress on my long sought after dream. But, I’m no wordsmith. It didn’t come easy, and I needed inspiration in my uninspiring environment. I read forums on the internet from other writers.. none of which were helpful. They talk about having a type of source for your material, a type of idea, genre, or just writing about things in your life, or near you. Frankly, these ideas seemed terrible, and I just wanted to write something worth reading. I wanted… no – craved to be like the greats. Well respected authors who were revered for their originality, and creativity. Their ability to write makes them respected and worshipped. Anyhow… I was frustrated and dejected for quite a while… I gave up on writing anything for many months. “I’m just not meant to be a writer”, I thought. Maybe some people just aren’t meant to do anything significant with their lives. I’ve given up on so many dreams at this point – what’s one more? I stayed that way… until last April.
I was walking home from the office, down a lonely decrepit sidewalk. I felt a chill run down my spine as I walked, and I felt ice in my veins, like I was being watched. I figured it was just the cool fall air… but my unease was instinctive. This caused me to give pause on my trek home, and as I did, I noticed it almost right away, plain as day. An antique shop that I passed regularly on my walks to and from work, seemed to… stand out. Its presence looming over the lonely sidewalk, a guardian to all passerby. It’s hard to explain but I swear, it appeared to be in focus when everything else I was blind to. I was drawn to it… no… mesmerized by its mere appearance. I slowly approached the display window of the shop — noticing a few uninteresting old vases, an antique desk… and… there it was. Laying flatly atop the desk was a black… ceramic inkwell. The desk appeared insignificant thinking about it now, but it was… fairly old. But the inkwell adorning the top was… well… beautiful. Its smooth, polished outer surface, pitch black – as if it absorbed any light brave enough to touch its surface. The lid was a silvery metal, with a design of what appeared to be some sort of unfamiliar symbol stylized onto it. It appeared to be the image of a book… except the book appeared to be dripping some sort of liquid from its closed pages. I couldn’t tell what it meant, or its origin… but I thought it was unique looking. Simple, but elegant, and with interesting design. I went inside and promptly asked the kindly old man minding the store about it, and he seemed to have no idea of how old it was. It lacked labels, or maker’s marks of any kind, but it looked quite worn. He was also uncertain of the symbol’s origin. Now – you see, I’m not a collector or even really have been inside an antique shop before. But this inkwell – its smooth black surface called to me, like a siren song, leading me into dark… treacherous waters. I was enamored with it by its very presence. He wasn’t asking for much, so I decided to purchase it. I enjoyed seeing little mementos and things adorning my desk, and I figured… this thing would motivate me to write every time I’d sit at my desk.
It did more than just motivate me to write. Once the inkwell lay atop my desk, I felt a surge of – what I can only describe as pure energy. The fire inside my belly that had been quiet and quelled ever since I’d dropped out of college. Suddenly, I felt like I could see everything clearly – like the fog enveloping my mind had all been cleared in one instant. The feeling was both motivating and… terrifying – every bone in my body begged for me to sit at my desk and write until my fingers bled. It was nothing like before. I felt words turn into sentences, and sentences turn to paragraphs. Then before I knew it, page after page of words were before me. My hands were sore from typing so vigorously. I was in shock at how long I had been staring blankly while I wrote. It came so easily to me now. I felt like I’d finally just gotten better. This is what it felt like to be a writer. Pure joy showed itself on my face in the form of a manic grin. Nothing else mattered but writing. A constant stream of pages… then… more. Story, after story, I kept going. It was like every single idea I’d ever had in all my lifetime was coming back to me. Those… in-the-shower moments where you know you thought of something incredible, all came flooding back. Every single idea came back. I was amazed. I was happier than I’d ever been. My head was a constant flow of ideas and words.
A couple of months in… after I’d written a few stories… I started to notice things. I couldn’t turn this ability… off. I seemed to be hearing things now – like my ideas were being whispered into my ear, instead of coming from inside me. I wouldn’t leave my apartment for days. I would write nonstop, until passing out from exhaustion. I barely found time for meals. The whispers grew louder, and louder. When sitting at my desk, I could swear they were coming from the direction of the inkwell. My muse. I started remembering… not just the good ideas I’d forgotten. I started remembering every idea – no matter the subject.
Thoughts of violent crimes; detailed descriptions of the unsettling things I’d repressed. Whispering to me from the inkwell, I could hear everything. Excruciating, detailed accounts of torture, murder, and gore. Sentence after sentence, page after page – the words came all the same. The only sleep I get now is when I drink. Heavily. When I wake, the whispers start all over again. I just want to be free of this nightmare. The delusions have grown, and reality is now near impossible to discern. I can no longer tell if the whispers are my actual thoughts… or if they’re what the inkwell wants me to think. The very thought makes me shudder.
I write this now… because lately…. the whispers from the inkwell have been… disturbingly specific. It talked about people I knew. My family members. My friends. Even acquaintances. It told me about the middle-aged woman who bagged my groceries the other day being… brutally murdered. I heard the horrifying details as the inkwell whispered into my ear. Upon walking to her car after a late-night shift at the supermarket, a mugger stabbed and savagely beat her for the 40 dollars in her purse. The descriptions were… horrifying. I saw her death on the news the very next day… and I knew details not released to the press. The people I were hearing about were… going missing or showing up dead. The next day after hearing about these nightmares happening to my loved ones, friends and acquaintances… they would be gone. The inkwell killed them. It must be responsible. Or… No. Did I kill them? Am I culpable because these thoughts were originally mine but long lost? All the other ideas for stories were just repressed or forgotten ideas… are these the same? I can’t tell what’s real anymore. The whispers… they won’t stop. I spend nights staring at the black surface of the inkwell I felt so enamored with before. It calls to me, whispering to me. Taunting me with its endless words.
The story it’s regaling now is what I’m truly afraid of… for I know now the end is here. As I write this, it tells me the story of a young man, who on the 23rd of September, was found dead in his study, while working on his latest story. His body lying cold on the floor, a glass of scotch still on the desk next to an old inkwell. His eyes were solid black, as if they’d been turned to darkness itself. His wrists had been slit, and the carpet was soaked thickly with layers of what appeared to be… black ink. His computer desktop was still open to a Microsoft word document when the body was discovered. It read:
“Let the blood of the writer be his ink, and let the ideas flow out from him, as blood from a wound. His words will seep out and poison the well, just as his thoughts poison his life. The whispers of words are a gift, but humanity is his curse. The blood of the writer flows free, and so shall his words too, flow free.”
Written by C.Alexander
Content is available under CC BY-SA
Story Three
TITLE: Ghost Friend
AUTHOR: unknown
LINK: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/Ghost_Friend
In San Jose, California, during the early or mid 90’s, my family lived in a trailer. A neighborhood friend introduced me to his own makeshift Ouija board. Basically, it was just a piece of paper with the words “yes” and “no” on opposite sides. The planchette was replaced with a string tied to a small weighted object at the end. We would then hold the string between the two words written on the paper and ask questions directed to the ghost. The weighted object at the end of the string would slowly start swaying towards the corresponding word to the questions asked by us. I don’t remember what any of the questions or answers were, but the discussion ended with me believing that I had a new cool ghost friend to talk to! I created my own makeshift Ouija paper and had another chat with this “friend” before going to bed. Nothing unusual happened yet.
The next day, my friend called me on the phone, insisting that I get rid of the makeshift Ouija paper ASAP! He reported that his mom warned him not to mess around with these types of games, because chances are, it will be a demon toying with you. He insisted that I break off the relationship with my ghost friend immediately and said that he had already done the same by cursing out the Ouija paper.
After hanging up the phone, I immediately went to my room, looking for the makeshift Ouija paper. I grabbed the paper, but then decided that the best way to repel an evil spirit was to write “I love Jesus” all over the paper. Halfway through writing Jesus’ name, something in my trailer got REALLY, REALLY upset at me. I suddenly heard a very aggressive growling and even felt the whole trailer vibrating, as if something big and heavy was storming through the trailer. Unfortunately, my back was turned from the door, but the vibration felt like it was something coming from the hallway, heading towards my back. Neither were the growling sounds emitting from the ground, as one would expect from an animal. Whatever it was that entered my room, it had to be the same height as me, because the growling noise was coming up right behind my head!
For some strange reason though, I then decided to MAN the fuck up like a SOLDIER and turn around to face this angry entity that was clearly coming for me. My body tensed up, and I was ready to engage in the BIGGEST fight of my life. As soon as I turned around, however, the noise and the vibration stopped. Everything went quiet. But my body was still tense because I was SURE that a hostile entity had entered my room. Suddenly, I saw my dad struggling to carry an electric heater as he passed by my door, making grumbling noises as he stomped down the hallway.
But I didn’t let my guard down. I didn’t believe what I saw because I was absolutely CERTAIN that something entered my room! I remained in fight mode. Even though I never actually saw anything in the room with me, I felt the vibration and heard the growling coming up right behind me. I was as certain of this angry entity as a bat would be certain of “echolocation”.
“Yeah Right!” I said out loud in my empty room. I then stepped out into the hallway and looked in the direction where I saw my dad headed. The lights to my parent’s bedroom were on. I then called out to my dad, who then replied, “What?” except he replied from the living room, the other direction of the hallway.
I then asked, “Dad, didn’t you just walk into the bedroom?”
“No,” he replied.
I then said, “But I just saw you walk by!”
“No, he’s been in here with me the whole time,” my mom said.
I then walked down the hallway to my parents’ bedroom. It was empty. I then told my parents that the light in their bedroom was on.
My dad then said, “Oh, it is? I must have forgotten to turn it off then.” I then went back into my room and completed the sentence I didn’t get to finish writing. I wrote it again and again, all over the Ouija paper, folded the paper up, and stuck it into a Bible. I left it in the Bible for at least a week before I tore it up and threw it away. This thing that tried to terrorize me, never bothered me again.
CONCLUSION:
I was like 12 or 14 at the time. I don’t do drugs nor drink alcohol. I was not afraid of the dark. I never had any imaginary friends or problems sleeping alone at night. My parents are not the type that play pranks on me either. Even if this was a prank, this prank would be way too elaborate for my parents to pull off!
This memory is the ONLY reason why I’m not an atheist. There is obviously a lot of evil in this world – physical and apparently non-physical as well – but whatever it was that in my home, it SERIOUSLY got pissed at me for just writing a name down: Jesus. If God doesn’t exist, then writing Jesus’ name on the Ouija paper should not have any effect on it! There would be no reason whatsoever for this evil entity to get upset at me if I was writing a name of a fictitious character.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I am not a Bible geek. I do not believe in every word of the Bible. I do believe in evolution. I trust the scientific method way more than blind faith. I am also very disgusted with what I’ve seen religious people do and the claims they make about “what God would want or despise”, but until I can get a logical scientific explanation of this event, I can NOT become an atheist.
***
Thank you for listening. If you enjoyed the podcast visit my website at www.scarystorytime.com where you can make a comment on the post or on the horror forum. You can also follow me on social media @spookybooscarystorytime or on the Spooky Boo’s Scary Story Time podcast. Get the links at www.scarystorytime.com.
That’s all for tonight. I’ll see you in your nightmares.
