Creepypasta #907: My Superpower

Image credits

Length: Medium

As a kid, I loved magic. The way a magician could teleport, bend a spoon, or cut a woman in half astounded me. When I grew up and learned the tricks were illusions and sleight of hand, I turned to superheros. How I longed to have power.

Everyone knows which power they would choose. For me, the answer was telekinesis. Like Magneto, except everything would be made out of metal. That, and I wouldn’t be a villain.

To be perfectly honest, I’d probably just be lazier than normal. How great would it be to pour myself a glass of wine without getting off the couch?

One night in particular I was slumped down after a long day at work. Boss kept me 3 hours overtime and the report didn’t even get submitted.

So there I was, left in front of the television for another night alone (cat doesn’t count, let’s be honest). Naturally, during the commercial I practiced.

Looking at the curtains in front of my window, I concentrated. Cleared my mind, focused, and felt the energy within.

I snapped my fingers at the curtain, and lo and behold!

Nothing happened.

No surprise there.

I snapped a few more times out of habit and finally noticed the curtains move!

I did it! I really did it!

… and then I noticed the glowing red orbs out of the corner of my eye.

And the being that possessed those eyes.

I froze in fear as the being approached, expecting, if I was lucky, a quick and relatively painless death. I watched in horror as it stopped two feet in front of me, opening its palms to show seven impossibly long fingers, all ending with a pointed claw. This was it; I reflected on my life briefly as I waited for the end to come.

And then it kneeled. It kneeled. One clawed appendage across its chest as it bowed its head before me.

Still frozen, we sat there for what seemed like hours. Millions of thoughts raced through my head, finally somehow settling on that bottle of wine I hadn’t finished. God, I wish I had.

That’s when it finally raised its head. Still frozen, I watched as it stood a full 8 feet tall, whispers of the hairs on its wrinkled head scraping the ceiling. It turned and moved away. Was it drawn to movement, perhaps? I hadn’t seen any movement, though.

My eyes strained, head unmoving, as the being left the edge of my sight. A moment later it returned, walking towards me with something clutched in its hand. I hoped with all my might that it hadn’t killed Fluffles, she was all I had left.

It extended the hand to me and I paused, not wanting to look. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath after a long moment, then finally opened them.

It was holding the bottle of wine.

Turns out you don’t need telekinesis when you can summon loyal minions.

Credits to: Zchxz

Creepypasta #NINE-HUNDRED: My Grandmother Never Baked Me Cookies

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Length: Medium

My grandmother was a tough woman. She was a rancher her whole life, taking care of the family farm alongside her husband. She woke up before the sun, and broke her back until it went down. She was resourceful, sarcastic, and sharp as a whip. Motherhood gave her a touch of calm, and as a grandmother, she was as kind as she was strong–still throwing bales of hay at 65. 

Given her upbringing and general no-nonsense nature, I was never surprised that she didn’t do the typical grandmotherly antics, like baking cookies. She considered it a frivolous waste of time; something homemakers indulged in. She and her husband were too busy working the land to work an oven.

There were, however, a few select times that I saw her contradict herself. A summer when I visited, and I saw her and grandpa glowering at a stack of papers on the kitchen table. They spoke in angry, hushed, whispers. I caught the words “sell” and “profitable land” on the top sheet before my grandfather snatched the bundle up and threw it into the fire.

That night, my grandmother made cookie dough. The next morning, a man in a suit came, touting a briefcase and a stern mouth. My grandfather shooed me away as my grandmother set down a plate of cookies. I didn’t see the man in the suit leave, but I did see my grandfather return, covered in dirt.

I would later discover that my grandparents had been turning down land buyers for the last twenty years. Something about large deposits of valuable metals deep beneath the ground. The buyers weren’t always legal in their methods of coercion–several had been jailed for assault. And while my grandfather would have black eyes and stitches, the other guys definitely looked worse. My grandparents might’ve been past their youth, but they still had pride. They had cultivated the farm all their lives. They weren’t about to let it be bulldozed. It would stay in the family.

And so it did, up until Grandma’s dying day. I was at her bedside for the last few minutes; Grandpa had died a mere ten days earlier. My mother lived across the country, and though she was rushing, the turnaround was too sudden. She wouldn’t make it in time. Having picked up the family profession of tending the farm, I was the only one monitoring my grandmother’s departure from this world. She couldn’t speak much more than rasp at the end, but she tucked a piece of paper into my hands before passing. I won’t forget the stern look in her eyes; the demand that blood defend blood.

It’s been a few days since then. There’s a knocking on my door. I imagine it’s another suited man, come to sweet talk the new woman of the house. But he won’t get much of anywhere. Even though I don’t have my grandfather’s strong arms, I still have his shovel. And I’ve got patience. I pause to glance at the note I’ve taped to the fridge–a traditional, family recipe–and set a plate of warm cookies onto the kitchen table.

Credits to: Strawberry-Sunrise


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The Futility of Religion
A religion becomes useless once its spiritual system collapses.
By Younus AlGohar

‘The religion you are practising now has a big missing link: the knowledge which would revive and enlighten the soul.’

Creepypasta #914: The Ghost-Made Road

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Length: Medium

“Where do roads come from, Mommy?”

It was getting difficult to see Timmy through the rearview with the oncoming dusk. Timmy had been silent the whole car ride, which is rare for him. Normally, he would talk my ear off.

“Why do you ask, honey?” I implored pleasantly.

“George says ghosts make them.” Timmy answered.

I’ve had some fun dealing with child-friendly explanations before:

Moon is made out of cheese

Thunder is made by angels bowling in heaven

So this was a new one.

“Ghosts are not real, honey” I stated. “Roads are made by….uh…well, they were first made by horses…”

“George says that at night, ghosts come out to build roads to help us get to where we are going.” Timmy explained. “Some roads go to heaven, others go to hell.”

“Oh really? And where do you think we are going Timmy?”

Timmy looked out the window and shrugged. The road we were on was not our usual route. The darkness soon shrouded my surroundings. Only the dashed white lines that shot underneath my car provided any kind of scenic distraction. 

As I drove along however, even the white lines began to fade. Cracks and fissures began to appear along the asphalt making the road rougher. The poorly maintained road gave way to gravel and eventually the gravel gave way to dirt and flattened weeds.

“Mommy, I see a ghost!” Timmy shouted as he pointed to the right.

I looked and for a second I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye, but the night and the speed I was driving didn’t give me a chance to see anything.

“Honey, it was probably just an animal.”

“No Mommy! It was a ghost! Do you think it’s one of the ghosts that made this road?”

“No Timmy! I told you, ghosts are not real!”

Timmy got quiet. I didn’t like raising my voice, but traveling alone like this on a little-used road was making me nervous.

Finally the road reached a dead end. There were no signs or markers. Beyond this point there was no indication that mankind had ventured further. I stepped out of the car and was greeted by the smell of mist and swamp water.

I picked up Timmy who was starting to rub his eyes; a sign that he was about to fall asleep. I placed him down on the ground and then went back into the driver’s seat momentarily to switch the gear into Drive. I watched as the car rolled forward and down into the darkness beyond. I heard a soft splash indicating the car had reached the water.

Timmy held my hand and stared with me unquestioningly.

“Some roads do lead to Hell, Timmy” I said.

I don’t know why I said that.

I don’t even believe in Heaven or in Hell.

But if there is a Hell, I am sure that is where my son-of-a-bitch cheating husband I stuffed in the trunk was heading.

Credits to: Mechdog2395

Creepypasta #899: Bless Me, Father, For I Have Sinned

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Length: Medium

The door to the confessional opened, the light burned my eyes and I squinted. I heard the person sit, and I waited.

“What have you come to confess, my child,” I said, listening to the heavy breathing in the booth next to me.

“It’s okay, you are among God now.”

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” the man’s voice announced.

“That’s okay, I’m here to listen to whatever you have to say.”

He cleared his throat, “I’ve tried to be a good man, Father.”

“I’m sure you have, no-one is born evil.”

“Now, why would you mention evil? You don’t even know what I’ve done!” the man said irate.

“Sorry, son. The sins of the flesh are sometimes considered evil, we don’t judge here.”

He exhaled, his breathing becoming more hastened.

“I’ve killed someone.”

My heart thumped in my chest, I took a minute to compose myself.

“Father? Are you still there? Did my confession unsettle you?”

“A little,” I said, trying to get my bearings.

He chuckled, “I thought as much. Do you want to know who it was?”

“I’m not sure that’ll make any difference,” I said in a steady tone.

“Are you going to report me?”

“No, you are a lamb of God. I implore you to pray for absolution.”

He cackled, “Do you think that will change what I’ve done?”

I stayed silent, feeling my heart beat heavy in my chest.

“It was a girl, she was so innocent. When I approached her, she smiled.”

I felt a repulsion grow within me, “Please, don’t say it was a child.”

“Oh, but it was. In fact, you know this child very well,” he responded with a wit that was lost on me.

“Sarah?” he offered.

I went white.

“Yes, I’ll take it from your silence, you know her well. She didn’t even see me as a threat, not even when I took the knife out of my pocket.”

With a thunk, a knife appeared on the shelf between the two of us. I stared at the blood as it glistened on the sharp blade.

“She asked whether I knew you. I nodded and said, ‘I have a message from your father.’”

“What did you do to her!” I demanded through the latticed separation.

“What you think I did, father. Don’t worry, she didn’t suffer…. much.”

With an anger I didn’t know was possible, I took the knife and slammed open the door, its echo reverberated around the inside of the church. I ripped open the other side of the confessional to see a man I barely recognized. Before I registered it, I plunged the knife into his stomach.

I dropped the weapon and backed up.

Blood spurted out of his mouth.

“Thank you, Father.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“You said that suicide was a mortal sin, I wanted to die.”

He slipped off the stool and onto the floor.

“WHAT ABOUT SARAH?” I shouted.

He smiled, “She’s fine. Thank you, Father.”

Credits to: ecrowe

Mental Health Care, Not a Luxury
I live in Georgia, USA. Recently, I have started the process of official psychiatric testing to see if I qualify for a service animal, and…
By Vi Synster

I’ve recently posted about my “experience” with psychiatric testing - in the sense that we REALLY need to lower mental health care costs to better help the overall health of the average American. If you’re on Medium, feel free to follow me there (I post about the adult industry, LGBT+ spectrum, my own genetic health issues, and the issues involving healthcare/insurance in America). If you’re not on Medium, please share this with folks you know would find this interesting :)

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, I am an occultist. I am not personally responsible for any results or any lack of results that you may have if you emulate my life, which I do not recommend for most people, seeing as it is, *cough*,  fucking crazy.

How You Don’t Trust Yourself and Why That’s Destroying You

By Sarah Wreck

Once, I got the feeling that I needed to leave the country for two days. I won’t say where I went, but in the time I was gone, I met several people who changed my life forever, one of them being a shaman. He told me now was the time to start being more passive in my magic, and taking care of myself. He said that I had to eat healthy and stop using food to come down from trances. I was supposed to balance my energy and making myself clean and strong.  I knew he was right. There was this quiet understanding between us, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so calm about my life and what I had to do.

Now it’s been said that there are substances that block your intuition or your psychic abilities. Among the many things listed are drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and meat.  The meat made sense to me, because I could feel different energy radiate from meat, than that of , say, carrots.  I feel different levels of emotion off different types of meat, and I think it all depends on what kind of a life the animal had or how badly or how well it was treated. During this time in my life, I also got this strong feeling that I shouldn’t eat bread either.

When I got back to the United States, I gave up bread and meat, cold-turkey. It was a very hard adjustment, I felt my body detox, but I also felt my intuition get stronger, and that was more intense than any diet change. If I didn’t do something that I knew I was supposed to via intuition, I felt like I was dying. I felt like I was imploding, disintegrating. I’d try to stop the feeling by eating sugary treats, by having protein powder, but nothing worked, really. The feelings that I was ignoring about what I had to do were too strong. I’d ask myself “Why do you want me to do this? It doesn’t make sense!” and it hardly ever did until after I followed my intuition.

It was like this whenever I had stopped eating meat in the past. I’d feel like I was dying. My doctors thought it was probably a hormonal imbalance or light anemia. They thought that the artificial hormones in meat would help me. I’ve recently discovered that it wasn’t the meat itself, it was my intuition and inherent drive. I’ve never followed it as much as I have these days, so of course I would have felt as if I was dying. I hadn’t realized that I wasn’t crazy, when it came to the random things that I felt.

These feelings are always there, and my language changed. I didn’t “want” to do things, They were often stupid little things that made no sense, and sometimes they were ridiculous or difficult. I now say “I think I’m supposed to do this” “I’m supposed to see you and help you tonight” “I’m supposed to go to this location right now”, and it always makes sense afterwards. Once I was “supposed” to use a restroom at a store I had not planned on entering.

“Why?” I asked myself.

“Because it’s a matter of timing, you have to use this specific restroom right now, even though you do not have to go, because it is where you are supposed to be, at this certain time. You will take exactly as long as you are supposed to,” I answered myself.

So I obeyed my intuition, and after I walked out of the bathroom in the back of the store, I ran into a woman. I had only met her once or twice, and I knew that she needed me at that moment. She vented to me about her life and teared up. She was very, very comforted to see me. I knew that she was the reason I was supposed to use that specific bathroom at that specific time, so that I would run into her. I followed my intuition by doing several things that I was supposed to that night, and I fell asleep with a feeling of immense peace.

The other day, I told my friend that is very sensitive, that I had a feeling that she needed to follow her intuition, no matter how dumb it seemed. She got a sudden feeling later, that she had to call her friend, immediately, and that he wasn’t ok. It turns out that he was actually very close to death, and she had sensed that. If she hadn’t followed her gut, she would’ve thought she was stupid, and probably had a panic attack or dissociated, as she does quite frequently due to her frequent distrust of her instincts. That day she learned that the feelings that she gets are real and happen for a reason. Soon she’ll start taking better care of herself, instead of trying to comfort herself in earthly ways, such as overeating, in order to compensate for the fact that she used to disregard her intuition, her emotions, and the parts of her that are special.

Doing readings has made me realize to what extent nobody trusts their intuition. It’s at the point where I literally have to tell people what they, at their very core, feel that they’re supposed to be doing.  Not only do the majority of people I read not take care of themselves at all, but they also do not trust themselves at all. It’s inherently very sad, to tell people all the time “you don’t like yourself, you don’t trust yourself”. It’s opened my eyes to how hopeless and sick we all are, as humans in this generation.  I need the reader of this article to know that the world feels so much better when you do trust your instincts, and what you’re supposed to be doing. You need to follow your gut in every second of every day, no matter how hard you want to avoid it or how dumb it seems.

I was once asked, “How is this inner voice accessible?” It grows stronger with practice and meditation.  I ask myself what I’m supposed to be doing at every second of every day now, because nothing gives me more joy than to trust myself fully. It’s like being on a roller coaster that’s absolutely terrifying. It’s terrifying to live, in general, with or without an amplified intuition,  but I feel like if I trust myself and the world that gives me these dumb, frustrating, and strange signs, everything will be ok and make sense later. In fact, as you read this, I am only writing this article, because my intuition told me that I needed to do it at midnight, after I took a shower. And there’s never been a better time.

I can very much prove that these are my words, 

plagiarizing  is for the ~w e a k~