My Creepypasta Site>
The Last Day of OctoberThe Last Day of October by mmpratt99
The Last Day of October
“Evil is not something superhuman, it's something less than human.”
― Agatha Christie
English author of detective fiction and playwright
“The thing I find really scary about ghosts and demons is that you don’t really know what they are or where they are. They’re not very well understood. You don’t know what they want from you. So it’s the kind of thing you don’t even know how to defend yourself against. Anything that’s unknown and mysterious is very scary."
― Oren Peli
Producer and writer
Carpeting the southeastern perimeter of the Hyperborea Out
The Old Gardner PlaceThe Old Gardner Place by mmpratt99
The Old Gardner Place
“Whoo stooole myyyyy golden arm?”
I rubbed my wide chin, totally unimpressed.
Meanwhile, my friend Russel McKeley, ‘Rus’ to his friends, groaned loudly, making his characteristic eye roll.
“Whooo stoooole my goool-den aaaarm?”
Yawning, I started cracking my knuckles. The noise startled the audience, including the werewolf girl Ruth Welsh, who was slouched in a decrepit chair, looking bored out of her furry head. Amused, I continued my sound effects, watching with a satisfied smirk as people cringed at the pop, pop, pop of each cracked knuckle.
Oblivious to my popping bubble wrap impression, Rus continued on with his griping.
Kevin Tullugaq, obviously mistaking the nervous jittering of the audience as noises o
The Lurker AboveThe Lurker Above by mmpratt99
The Lurker Above
“Whoo stooole myyyyy golden arm? Whooo stoooole my goool-den aaaarm? Whooooo stoooooole myyyyyyy gooool-den aaaarrrmmmm!”
Russel McKeley groaned loudly as he rolled his eyes. He glanced irritably out the tree house window at the summer moonlight illuminating the surrounding tourist tree camp of Ville des Arbres du Monde. The human teenager sighed heavily. I can’t believe I got myself lassoed into this loser lame-o Otherworld Summer Camp program.
The idea that he should go to Faerie for vacation came up unexpectedly as a sneaker wave, three days before the 8th Grade Graduation Ceremony.
“It’ll be great,” his mom had said brightly. They were in the kitchen, preparing for lunch. “You’ll like the Tullugaqs, and Kevin Tullugaq is just your age.”
My Creepypasta Site>
The Basement of DoomCh. 1--Afterwards
I used to have the same recurring nightmare, especially during the summer months. I was back in that strange basement, wearing that same red dress and gold-beaded scarf. I no longer have that outfit, I got rid of it on advice of a shaman which I’ll tell you about much later. Well, back to my dream. I found myself in that ghastly basement again, in that mirrored hallway. The only difference was that I was behind those long narrow mirrors, slowly walking this long corridor, its plank walls greening with moss and mold, doors and windows broken by vandals.
The boundary between indoors and outdoors no long applied here. There was ivy sprouting from every shattered window, and the ceiling had mostly collapsed into piles of rotting lichened beams and roofing tiles that were themselves slowly being consumed by vegetation.
At first, everything was okay. In spite of all the apparent creepiness, I never felt ill at ease while picking through the ruins of this place. It was a bit like what I imagined exploring some ancient ruins would be...more like you were in a strange kind of nature park rather than a horror movie. Then, like in any horror movie, the atmosphere quickly changed. Bliss unexpectedly gave way to soul-chilling dread.
Rounding a corner (the number of doors between corners varied in a random fashion. There were no numbers on the doors or in the corridors), I was suddenly met by a cold rush of wind. It whistled and hissed through an abysmal landscape of rusty, dilapidated buildings lit by a reddish-purple sky. Cold phosphorescence gleamed from the deep snow drifts.
I gazed at the bleak scene in utter bewilderment. The air was now thick and choking with the smell of petrol fumes and burning ozone.
Movement flicked in my peripheral vision followed shortly by the crunch of snow underfoot. Then my skin began to crawl when They finally emerged from the shadows.
I looked at Them. I pondered Them. I wondered why They keep showing up even after I left that house. Were They still wanting to be my protectors or was there a much sinister reason?
“What do you...?” was as far as I got before the whole scene faded and I was back in my room at the boardinghouse.
To be continued in The Basement of Doom--Ch. 2--An Explanation
|I'm doing this donation thing partially as an experiment and partially because I want to keep my premium membership and not have to rely on my dad's paypal in order to pay the dA bill.|
I'm not really sure how the whole points thing actually works.
Current Residence: The Northern Coast of California where all the hippies and tree-sitters are.|
Favourite genre of music: Classical music, Jazz, the Blues, Heavy Metal, Celtic.
Favourite photographer: Tsuya Pratt, my mom. She had displayed her work at galleries and had sold some artwork.
Favourite style of art: Pencil and ink drawing.
Operating System: Switched to X/p, but now all I need is a good color printer
MP3 player of choice: I haven't got one!
Shell of choice: Conch
Wallpaper of choice: All natural wood, I hate wallpaper!
Skin of choice: My own.
Favourite cartoon character: Hawk Woman, cause she can fly and kick ass!
Personal Quote: "All the good ones were taken already!"