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On a Lonesome RoadOn a Lonesome Road by mmpratt99
On a Lonesome Road
It was Olivia Satoui who first noticed the mailbox on the return trip from Curtisville Jr. High. “Well, that’s weird,” the seventh-grader said, half aloud, frowning. “Looks like an old mailbox, but I”m sure it wasn’t there on the way to school.”
“What is?” Madeline Hawthorn sat beside her, rooting through her backpack. One of Olivia’s best friends, she sometimes got teased for her resemblance to the Brattina Stone
Cold Curse Files--Ch. 11--DistractionsCold Curse Files--Ch. 11--Distractions by mmpratt99
As the Grierson medicine wagon threaded its way through the noise and confusion of market day, Kes looked round inquisitively. Around them loomed high buildings, medieval-looking places with half-timbered walls and slate roofs. Delicately woven gangplanks connected some of these buildings, and there were also arched bridges with ornamental roofs over them. Curving in between these walkways were miniature elevated railways, which to Kes’s amazement were being put to actual use by several small passenger trains.
The people milling about were a rich assortment of weird and fascinating creatures, some familiar to Kes while others were completely alien and exotic.
“Lots of traffic around,” she murmured, her first words uttered since their arrival to town.
Fifty Degrees Towards DarknessFifty Degrees Towards Darkness by mmpratt99
Fifty Degrees Towards Darkness
Pierard went up to the attic to search for some cold weather clothes. If he was going to embark on a polar expedition to the plumber, he would have to prepare himself first.
Where to start? He frowned as he looked about the cluttered corners of the attic. Pierard wished he had brought along some extra help, but then they’d probably make a mess or simply tell he was crazy for trying to travel in such weather.
I never thought it would be this messy, Pierard wandered over to an old-fashioned, pedal-powered sewing machine that had several wicker sewing baskets stacked on top. A long time ago, someone had used it to make clothes. He wondered whom exactly. He also wondered how much trouble it went into hauling it up here. It was a really heavy, bulky thing consisting mostly of cast-iron.
Pierard lifted off the lid of one
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!"