Your askign a Pre-Teen if he's had a troubled childhood.

lol

It still hasn't ended.

Anyway, where's a deady when you need one?

"UP YOURS"

Meh. *Crackes Nuckles*
You get home from work, pissed off at all of your co-workers, friends, family, parents.
They never listend, just because your were raised diffrently.
You hated them, and you snapped the on day you weren't invited to your Family's party, again. Your so called "friends" would laugh behidn your back. So would you Co-Workers, so you whish everything would die, in a painfullway.
That's when you started having the dreams. You would dream of Family and Friends, being murderd by a black soul,w hile you would watch as it would smile, and fly away with the decapitated head. You would notice your basement wouldn't open, but you never really cared. But, boies were found, murdered like in your dreams. It was horrific, and night after night you were forced to hide under your bed, but he bed would shake. Shaking with fear, you flew to the Basement, bashing it open to see all the missing heads, trophies of themselves, and you said "I wish I would die!" and then, you fell asleep. You had a dream, of the thing murdering you. You jolted awake, but you realised it was all to late.
You were DEAD

Possibly the worst story I've ever read. Too bad most of the good ones in this thread are dried out stories from creepypasta.com or EDs own personal collection. There are a few good ones though, the candle cove one, for instance. I stiffened up the first time I read it a while ago.

Protip: If you're going to write a story, don't follow the exact same formula as the other one you previously posted. Also, don't think that suddenly waking up and finding a red note (oh my, is it blood or paint) will make the story scary.

:P sorry murray, thought you guys might have lost interest.

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8

After that first scab I hung low for a while, lots of ideas came to me in this time, ways of doing things that would be wholly unnoticed until either A: someone got sick or B: I decided to come clean.

The whole hope was to sicken the general public to the point that they didn’t want to eat this shit that was just killing them anyways. I was just going to nudge people in the right direction.

First I started saving my scabs. Being the cutter I was I got them all the time, and when I picked one a new one would grow in the very same spot. This can be done multiple times to the same wound and it prolongs healing and scar tissue from forming. My first batch took me about 2 weeks to harvest and I had quite a few. The ones that came from forearms had tiny hairs in them that I had to carefully remove as I went. I cut each scab into tiny little slivers and put them all in a plastic baggy witch I would carry in my pocket at work.

The first batch lasted about month. After a while they grew sort of brittle so before I put them on the meat I had to toss them into a little pool of hot grease somewhere on the grill to loosen them up. I was very spars and I rationed as best as I could but trust me, when you have a pocket full of scabs and a grill full of burgers that only remind you of how disappointed you are in your species, it’s hard to ration. I can’t say I condone hurting people but I can say it was damn fun fuckin up their food. Usually I put down about 3 scabs a week, but by the time I took the final scab from the bag and put it on a burger I had much bigger dreams.

I had used dried blood; why not use regular, liquid blood. At the place I was working, (the place with a golden sign) the ketchup that comes on your sandwiches is put their buy a sort of gun, it looks like a funnel with a handle on the side and when you squeeze the handle ketchup shoots through the five tiny holes at the bottom and onto your burger (witch may or may not have had a scab on it). The ketchup is put into the gun from a big plastic pouch of the shit, so between pouch and gun all sorts of things can happen.

All I had to do was save just a little bit of blood from my scab harvesting and general cutting. You might not enjoy it like I did, but if you take a minute out of life to try it’s not that difficult to bleed a full baby food jar’s worth of blood. The problem came with portability, stick a baby food jar in your pocket and you’ll see that it’s not exactly hidden.

The solution I came up with first was to go to the local free health clinic and say that I was a diabetic but couldn’t afford needles, but I realized that they would probably test me to make sure I really was diabetic and not just some junky, so I had to think of something else. Then one night I went to Main Street in downtown Archdale and after meeting a few new people I was able to get one for ten bucks, the price seemed sort of high but I needed it. It was a small needle and only held about 4 units of blood, witch was good because I didn’t want too much. I sterilized the thing as best as I could by dipping the tip in boiling water, than in rubbing alcohol, than back in boiling water, I wasn’t gonna stick myself with it but I also didn’t want to give people std’s , they were already eating my blood and that’s enough after all. So once I had the needle I was set and every time I refilled the ketchup I added one unit of blood and mixed it up real good. Next came the onions.

As you may have guessed by their shitty flavor, the onions that come on the burgers at this place aren’t cut fresh daily. Actually they are dehydrated at first and only become those tiny flavorless things no one likes after they have soaked in an unclean tub full of lukewarm water for about 2 hours. Before they are soaked the onions sort of look like uncooked white rice, they are tiny white ovals that are dusty and crunchy, they have a similar color to toenails. Now with this I had to be a bit more creative. The scabs burned beyond recognition on the grill, the blood dissipated past taste and texture in the ketchup, but my toenails weren’t going to soften up or absorb the onion taste after soaking for a few hours, they would remain toenails.

First I let my toenails grow really long, then when I cut them and had the quarter moon shaped pieces, I cut those sort of like I did the scabs, into tiny slivers, then I cut the slivers along the layers of nail. It was very tedious but one clipping gave me all the toenails I ever used. Every time I made onions I would place a pinch of toenails in and mix it up.

So let’s say you were just one of those really unlucky people and you came though the drive thru. You may have gotten and burger with a scab cooked into it, blood in your ketchup, and that one onion that didn’t re-hydrate may have actually been a toenail.

The people who designed the mayonnaise packaging at this place are blindly genius. The mayonnaise comes in tubes much like caulking that is used in construction and it shot from a very similar type of gun.

Next came the shake mix. It hit me pretty quickly what I was gonna do next. I have to say that changing the shake mix became my new favorite job. Anytime Jason would ask someone else to do it I would quickly say “oh hey don’t worry, I got it. Just let me go use the restroom real quick”. Than I would go to the restroom, peal off my white latex gloves, get a handful of liquid soap and go to work. If you have ever beaten off at work than you know that aside from the little extra rush of doing something so depraved it’s really not all that satisfying. You sit their and work your tool and forget whether or not you locked the door, but you always do. People knock, just hearing other people going cluelessly about their normal day while you dephile yourself like some sort of zoo monkey, it all gets sort of awkward. Add to that the fact that you have a time limit and an agenda and the climax is only sort of good.
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You jolt awake, shaking from the nightmare. It was the Totem pole beside you bed, decorated with the remains of you family. Looking to your left, you see you wife, gone, and a note, coverd in scribbley red text "Going out, back soon". Relife floodes over you, making you drowsy. Falling into sleep, your in your room with the Totem pole, it points, to a note, you read it. It was the one from when you woke up, but you notice, the paper is in the same red. You look at the totem pole, it grinning with glee, as it points to it's figners, coverd in red, it scrapes it on you forhead, it's warm, stickey, like..."Blood" you shout out, before the totem pole grabs you, and tears you pieace by pieace.
If this makes more sence.


Look, your asking a Pre-Teen write to make an awsome story.
I never even knew I could write last week.

Describe pre teen, etc.

Anyways. stories like; "'OGM DID U SEE DAT DAT KILAR CUT HIZ HED OFF *MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF BLOOD FALL ONTO FLOOR*.

Or anything else like that.

Remember peepz. Scary stories don't need to have violence, it's how you tell the story and how it follows along all the way until the climax.

This morning I stepped out of the shower and this bathroom was fine: white walls, white tiles, sink and counter with toothpaste crusted all over. Three out of the four lightbulbs over the mirror were still good — 100 watt, clear bulb, blinding bright in the small white room. Like always I was late, so I skipped shaving. She liked it when I didn’t shave, anyway. I was thinking about doing mutton chops. She’d get a kick out of that. I passed the mirror and noticed I was grinning. I didn’t even know I was grinning.

I’m in the bathroom tonight before bed and there’s something wrong with the lights. All three are on again but they glow kind of brown and don’t really light up the rest of the room. I should get more bulbs from the kitchen. I should, but I’m busy. The date was shit and she shut her apartment door on me. You’d think that would wipe off the stupid grin from this morning. But I came back in the bathroom and, in the mirror, my face was still doing it. If I touch my face it doesn’t feel like a grin, but there it is in the mirror.

In the brown light it’s hard to make out but — have you ever actually counted how many teeth show when you smile? I lean in close. One, two, three, four — I didn’t know my mouth was so wide. Nine, ten, eleven — I can’t do mutton chops after all. The corners of my lips are out to my ears. It still doesn’t feel like a grin. But keep counting, for curiosity. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight.

The digital clock humming quietly on my nightstand was the only sound that my ears could pick up from my surroundings. The night was dead quiet. I knew he was there. Right on schedule, he would be standing outside my window. He would knock. I, for reasons I wish I could explain, would open the blinds. He would stare at me, and I would stare at him. He would leave soon after, and I would stay awake until the sun began to rise. This was our routine.

My mind was wondering a thousand miles away when he first knocked, though my eyes had stayed lingering on the window. I told myself that I wouldn’t open the blinds. I told myself that tonight he wouldn’t scare me and that I would get the rest I desperately needed. He knocked twice more. I held a pillow over my head and began humming an old song I used to sing in elementary school. He knocked again, and this time, he had a done it a lot less courteously than he had in the past. It had become a loud thumping noise.

I threw the pillow off of my head and opened the blinds. His pale, wrinkly face leered in at me. His lifeless, black eyes that shone despite their darkness, peered into my own. His stringy hair fluttered a little in the wind. He seemed to be breathing somewhat harshly, and though it was hard to determine his mood as anything other than emotionless, I could sense an amount of animosity I had never felt before.

After what seemed like hours, he turned around and was on his way. I faced the ceiling and wept.

This had been going on for more than a month. I had tried to talk to others about it, but I could never finish my sentences. They’d degrade into quiet mumblings and whimpers. I was so tired, and I had even begun to wonder if I was losing my mind. I had tried sleeping pills but even they couldn’t help me to sleep through the night. The weirdest part is that I always woke up about five minutes before he knocked. I knew, instinctively, that he would be there. I was so tired.

The next night, I told myself that under no circumstances would I look out the window. I didn’t even care if he was on the verge of breaking the glass, I would not give him what he wanted. I would not feed him. He’d have to find someone else to terrify. He’d have to leave me alone.

I woke up, and I instantly knew what was going to happen. It’s funny, I was anticipating his knocks, and yet I still jumped a little when I finally heard him. I laid in my bed quietly, as if I hadn’t heard anything. He knocked again, and I hid under the pillow once more. He knocked again, even louder than he had the night before. I whimpered, but remained under the pillow. He knocked twice more. After that, things got quiet. I no longer had the feeling I was being watched. I pulled my head out from under my pillow, and slowly looked out the window.

Nothing. Just my backyard.

I laughed. I laughed so hard that little tears began to slip out of my eyes. He was somebody else’s problem now. I looked at the clock, noticed I had only been awake for about fifteen minutes, and turned over to go back to sleep.

I had just gotten to that area where dreams mingle with reality when I heard the distant click of a door. My backdoor. Someone had entered into my house from the outside. Something from my backyard. I knew it was him. I listened quietly as his footsteps made their way from my kitchen, to my dining room, to the short hallway outside of my bedroom. He was walking slowly, patiently and was not attempting to hide his presence at all.

He was right outside my bedroom door.

He knocked on my door, and I almost vomited. I wanted to do something, anything. I was paralyzed with fear. He knocked again. Trembling, I pulled the pillow back over my head. All that could be heard was the sound of weeping, knocking, and a digital clock humming quietly to itself.

I was so tired.

You just moved into your new apartment, in a very big city. After a year of this life, you have almost given up hope of making any friends; be it at work or any other means. You feel very lonely. After looking for a peaceful place to spend your time, you find a quiet diner on the outskirts of town. The waitress is very attractive. Also, she seems to be the only employee there, ever. You never see anyone else eat there either, ever. The place is perfect for you.

Making love to her becomes a routine. You go there every night for dinner, and then to see her.

You eventually make other friends, and eat at the diner less and less. After some time you stop going completely.

At a bar with your best friend, you tell him about the fun you had with the waitress at the diner. He says he absolutely must see her. You take him there one night, but the building is in a state of ruin. The front door barely opens. The grimy insides of the diner are disgusting, and, behind the counter, is moldy corpse, reeking of pus and rot.

When the police come to the scene, they interview both you and your friend. You are shocked to hear that the body is of a runaway girl from another province. The police tell you this is a homicide, and that she was also raped dozens of times, after she was killed. The police say they can get a match for DNA and eliminate you as a suspect. You are suddenly very worried.

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Every time you exhale, a little bit of your soul escapes. Luckily, you almost always inhale it back before anyone else gets to it. Almost.

Ever fogged up a mirror with your breath?

Don't do that.

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These will be my last few story posts for a while, I'm going to give you guys a chance to post your own stuff. I really like how your story is coming along deady, and I want to see it through to the end even if no one else does.