Did anyone recognize the character?

I know I’m pretty late to this, but I’ve always wondered, does anyone know who actually made the original Jeff the Killer creepypasta? And if so, do you think they know people are still trying to figure out where the original image came from? Have they ever said anything about it?

This is incredibly difficult for me to talk about. I feel, I don’t know, ashamed, I guess. Like I’ve somehow failed as a parent. When I was growing up, I thought my parents hated me.

I never wanted that for my daughter. I wanted her to know how much I loved her. That my love was unconditional.

I’ve never felt as proud as I did the day she came into this world. It was almost like looking into a mirror. She had my eyes. My ears. Our noses were practically identical. And her smile, God, it was like nothing else mattered in the entire world.

I wanted her to have that same pride in herself. I never wanted her to ever feel any self-hatred. That’s another thing my parents made me feel. I didn’t get their pride. I didn’t get their love. I got cold stares. I got nights where I couldn’t sleep because Mom’s cries were so loud.

I didn’t ask for my family. I didn’t ask to be assigned to them. They were supposed to accept me, and they failed, miserably.

I guess the universe has a strange sense of humor because now, it’s like my daughter can’t accept herself.

She doesn’t hunt with me anymore. She tries to suppress her urge. She doesn’t do the cute little growl she used to do as a baby. I bet it’s 10 times as impactful now, but I wouldn’t know because she just refuses to practice.

She won’t even climb trees anymore. She’d rather hide out at home. Curled up in the dark, pouting to herself.

Of course, I try and comfort her, try and make her realize she should be proud of who she is, but she just rejects me. It seems like that’s all life is for me. Rejection from the people who are supposed to love me.

She tells me I “wouldn’t get it,” whatever the hell that means.

She hates her skin, so she tries to cover it up. She hates her teeth, so she refuses to smile. She even wears beanies that she stole from humans to cover her pointy ears.

That’s something I guess I can respect. At least she’s causing harm to them, even if it’s just with something as simple as stealing. I just wish she’d steal something useful like meat rather than clothes and makeup.

That’s something I never quite understood. Makeup clearly makes shedding more difficult. Why would you want life to be harder than it already is? I mean, we already have to hide out in the woods.

I guess that’s not my place, though.

It’s starting to get more concerning, however. It was already hard to watch her cry because she felt different. Now I have to watch her quite literally alter herself to fit into “social norms,” as she calls it.

She’s already filed down her fangs. When she does hunt, all she has now are her claws, and those are much easier to get rid of than teeth.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not with the times. All I know is that I want her to be happy in the body she was given.

There are no female specimens left for her to look up to, and I’m just an old, out-of-touch Dad, apparently.

I hope this matter resolves itself. I’ll keep doing my best to get her to see that they’re the monsters, not us.

Until then, I’ll just keep reminiscing on the simpler times. I kept her shell, and these days, that seems to be the only thing that brings me peace.

Well, that and hunting humans.

I don't want to give away my name or location, but I was hiking an unmarked trail a few miles off the main highway yesterday when I stopped to rest by an old, lightning-struck oak. Inside a deep split in the trunk, I found a plastic Ziploc bag.I thought it was a geocache. Instead, it was filled with about twenty loose pages (maybe more) ripped from a journal. The edges are charred, and the ink is smeared. The first page doesn't have a year, just a date.

This will probably make me look insane, but I need to warn you of something very serious. This seemed like the best way to get the word out.

Every night before sleeping, I scroll on my for you page. I turn all of my lights off and open my windows to signal to my body that it’s time to quiet down. A video popped up on my feed of a man wearing a very weird looking outfit. His face was covered by a black cloth with eyeholes cut out of it and he had black oil or coal on his eyelids. The videos at first seemed to just be a random guy who has really terrible humor, who likes moving in unsettling ways and being weird all around. The posts were all labeled as “relatable” masked man, but they are not relatable at all. They just looked messed up. 

I scoffed at my screen and scrolled on. My night went on as it normally does. I watched videos until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore, and then fell asleep with my phone in my hand. I woke up, showered and went about my day as I always did. I drove to work, punched in and began stocking the shelves. My break time slowly rolled around and I was able to sit down and have some lunch while watching social media again. For a little bit, I scrolled through videos and it was completely normal, but I got another video from that same weird guy on my FYP. He was infront of a webcam this time on a video, playing a game. He had a memorable voice. It was higher but smooth in a way that was normal but unnatural at the same time. It was more annoying than creepy, so I still just brushed it off. I scrolled past the video without clicking the like button, but to be honest I didn’t click the block button either like I should have. I swiped through a few normal videos, but the app brought me another video from the same person. I grunted and scrolled again. There was another one. I squeezed my jaw because of how annoyed I got. Most people who I find annoying didn’t give me the same weird feeling that he gave me. It was more than annoying, it was unsettling. There was something in his eyes that normal people don’t have. I don’t know how to explain it. 

Twenty minutes passed and my break was over. I shut off my phone and put it in my pocket. For the rest of the day, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, which is really out of the ordinary because things don’t usually bother me like that. I got home and after I had my dinner, I got into my bed, I pulled up my covers and I started having my nightly scroll. I didn’t realize until about an hour later, but I didn’t see him on my for you page. This should have been a relief, but it made my stomach turn instead. I don’t know what in the world made me think to do this, maybe it was curiosity, but I went into the search and looked him up. It wasn’t difficult to find. I went through his profile and only saw videos with the same bad humor, but the more I looked the more normal it felt. This did put me at ease a little bit and I was able to easily get to sleep. 

This is when it really started. I had a dream. I don’t even know if I should call it a dream or if I should call it a nightmare. The guy from the videos just stood there at the side of my bed, staring. Its eyes were wide like it was trying to take in all of my details. It was examining me quietly as a shadowy form. The nightmare seemed to go on forever while its inky black shadow hovered and leaned over me. My eyes felt like they were having holes drilled right through them from how hard the eyecontact was. My body felt hot with adrenaline, but I wasn’t able to move away. It didn’t blink. It just very slowly breathed in and out. 

The next night, I felt drawn to it again. This time I opened the comments and read some of them. The more I looked, the more obvious it became that it wasn’t just me. Many of them were about the videos, but there was also a lot of comments about how more people have had dreams with him in them. Some of them were even concerned in the same way I was, and there was even a video joking about dreams like it was taunting me. I guess it could have been what he wears or the power of suggestion, but isn’t it weird that so many people keep having dreams about the same thing? I powered down my phone and laid there silently in the dark. I started having the feeling that someone was watching me so I closed my bedroom window. I didn’t want to watch anything else. I didn’t want to sleep. I was stunned and confused. 

My eyelids started to get heavy and I closed them for a minute but I realized that I needed to use the bathroom, so I got up and made my way through the hallway. I did my business but when I turned around to leave the bathroom, a shiver went up my spine. The air felt colder than normal and goosebumps popped all over my skin. I thought that maybe a draft had blown through my window, but I remembered that I closed it just a minute ago. My subconscious brought me to start turning around to look behind me, but something in my mind screamed at me DO NOT TURN AROUND. I trusted my gut and quickly brought my head forward again. I took one step forward with my hands clenched closed. A weak breath brushed against the back of my ear. Something was behind me. My body flooded with fear and I ran as fast as I could to the other side of the house where I kept a metal bat. A loud slam was made when I pulled the coat closet’s door open with extreme force, and I quickly reached around the corner to find the bat while I kept my eyes locked on the opposite end of the dark hall. My hand grasped onto the cold metal and I pulled. It did not move. I thought that something must have been leaning on it, so I quickly looked into the closet and pulled with my other hand as well with still no success. Nothing was leaning on it and no object was weighing it down. I glanced behind me quickly and then back in the closet. 

The darkness of the closet wasn’t possible to see past. A creepy, silent moment passed. Two inhuman eyes appeared from the shadows. My blood froze the moment they met my own, and I stopped breathing. Its pupils were huge, like it was a shark hunting its prey. The metal bat loudly fell on the floor as its hands let go of it and I screamed louder than I ever screamed before. I was suddenly sitting up in bed, panting heavy in a cold sweat. My eyes quickly looked around my room. It was a nightmare. I didn’t even know that I fell asleep. I very quickly grabbed my phone off of my bedside cabinet and shot a text over to my best friend. He was the kind of person that you could turn to for anything. I never met anybody else in my whole life who was that friendly to people. Someone like that is very rare to find these days, but I’m very grateful that I met him. 

I texted him “Do you know this guy?” and sent a link to the social media page. Thankfully he responded fast and I wasn’t left waiting. I stared at the three dots and they bounced on the bottom of my screen while he typed. 

“Yea he’s on my FYP constantly. He’s so funny LOL.” That was the reply I got from him. After he sent it, he quickly moved on and started talking about something else like it was nothing out of the ordinary. I had to mention it again. 

I typed it up but was hesitating. I knew it was a weird question. “Have you had any dreams about him?”

“How did you know that? Yea I did.” Fear clouded my mind when I read the words on my screen. 

“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen. I’m having them too like really bad, and I saw so many comments where people were having them too. What happened in yours?” I sent. My body was shaking. I didn’t get a response for two hours after that message and I was getting worried that I pushed it too far. It was weird for him to not text back fast. My phone eventually buzzed.

He sent another message. “I had a dream where he was doing something in my room, but it was blurry and I don’t remember anything else. Are you ok?” My eyes filled up with tears because I realized that he probably thought I was crazy. 

I replied, “Please. Don’t you believe me?” My friend typed again for a few seconds and a new message popped up.

“I do believe you but I think that you might be getting yourself freaked out over something that isn’t happening. I want to say this more kindly, but I don’t know how.” Another message came on the screen. “Your feelings are real, but I have my doubts about this guy. He’s just a cosplayer or something and he can’t actually do anything like that.”

My blood went to my feet and I sat quietly looking at my phone. I didn’t respond. I just clicked the button on the side of my phone and the screen went black. It was still dark out and the house was getting cooler inside since a breeze was coming through my window. I thought I closed it, but maybe I didn’t. I felt like I was going insane. I didn’t know if I was still dreaming but I knew that it was a real possibility. 

I fell back into sleep and didn’t have any dreams at all. It was a shock that I woke up feeling rested and for the next few days, there were no disturbances. I didn’t see him on my for you page anymore after the last bad dream I had. It was suspicious but hey, I wasn’t complaining. By the fourth quiet day, I was able to forget that it happened and I almost even returned to my normal, undisturbed life. 

The peace that I felt quickly disappeared without any reason. My mind wandered back to those eyes I saw and anxiety started to burst inside of me. I thought that I was past this. My eyes started to look around my room. It wasn’t dark out but the sun was starting to set, and the sky was becoming dark gray.

After a few minutes I noticed that there was a tapping sound coming from my closet door. My blood ran cold and I stood up with my eyes focused on the door. My mind went back to the coat closet in the hallway from the nightmare. The eyes felt like they were peering at me from inside of my own brain. I shivered from the idea. I was slowly walking closer to the closet. My fingers grabbed hold of the handle and I pulled the door open while looking in. I was finally able to breathe when I saw that the closet was empty other than my clothes. My shoulders relaxed, and I turned around to walk to the kitchen and go get a snack since I was hungry. I knew it was just my mind playing pranks on me.

I entered the kitchen and when I pulled the refrigerator door open, the light inside turned on and slightly lit up the room. The white light caught something outside of the window. I saw it out the corner of my eye and looked up quickly. There was nothing there except for shrubbery. I thought that I was probably just tired, so I ignored it. I put two pieces of bread on a napkin and started making a ham, cheese and veggie sandwich. 

“Hello.” 

My entire body froze. The voice was familiar. I knew exactly where I recognized it from. It was that thing again. My stomach flipped like if I was on a roller coaster and my eyes shot to the other side of the kitchen. He was standing there staring at me, just like he did in the first dream. Examining. Expressionless. His neck twitched quickly in response to my eyecontact and his eyelids blinked very quickly before focusing on mine again. Its movements were terrifying and wrong, and a weird gurgle sound came from under its mask. It sounded like it would have been painful. 

I was angry and screamed “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” One of its eyes squinted slightly because I was loud. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS? WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS?” It didn’t budge but I could hear the sound of it opening its wet mouth behind the cloth. 

It didn’t say much, except for the simple phrase “You know.” I didn’t know. It slowly pointed through the window to my neighbors yard. I was terrified to look away from its eyes, but I did it anyway and followed the line of its finger. My sight landed on the pile of burnt wood and ash in the yard. 

I turned back to face him. “That? I was going to light a firework! It was just a prank! I didn’t mean to light the shed!” Its eyes widened more while it stared at me. It still didn’t blink and its breathing got louder. 

“What about them?” It angrily moved its hand and pointed harder. I knew he was talking about the neighbor’s pets. They had three cats staying in that shed when i accidentally burned it down. 

I screamed “ARE YOU SERIOUS?” I waved my hands around. I was furious through and through, but I was also scared for my life. “I TOLD THEM IM SORRY!” The thing bolted at me and I quickly started to run away from it. “STOP!” I screamed at it again while I ran as fast as I could to the door. I tripped and banged my head on the floor. My skull ached. I flipped myself over on to my back and put my arms up to protect myself. Its hands grabbed my wrists tight while my head pounded. I blinked my eyes hard a few times but my vision was still blurry from the hit.  It cut circulation from my arms with its squeeze as it leaned very close to me. Its face was almost touching mine. An animal like scream boomed from the things lungs and rattled in my eardrums. The screech was piercing and was the loudest sound I ever heard in my life. My eyes squeezed shut while I cried but I wasn’t able to plug my ears. My whole body tensed up and suddenly, the sound was gone. The pressure on my wrists was gone too. I opened my eyes and sat with extreme speed. My chest raised and fell while each terrified breath was sucked in. 

It disappeared just as fast as it came. Because of my head injury, I was unable to stand so I crawled to my phone and dialed 911. I was brought to the hospital and it turns out that the hit on my head gave me a mild concussion, but I am ok. My ears are ringing and I don’t know if it’s from the concussion or the scream. The hair on my arms is standing up while I’m writing this and I know that it is still here. I can feel him around me and in my brain. I keep seeing shadows out the corner of my eye. My brother is staying over with me for the night but I know I will not sleep. That thing is not human. It might look and act like a normal person on social media but if you listen to anything please listen to this now. Be careful because this can happen to you too. Don’t be fooled. 

​

Todo empezó hace tres semanas, cuando subí un video viejo a YouTube. Soy camionero de larga distancia, de esos que pasan más tiempo en la Panamericana que en casa. Me llamo Roberto, tengo 42 años, vivo en Chillán, Chile. Como muchos en mi rubro, grabo las noches aburridas con la GoPro del tablero para luego editar clips cortos y subirlos a un canal pequeño que tengo: "Noche en la Carretera". Nada profesional, solo paisajes oscuros, luces de otros camiones y a veces alguna anécdota. El video que subí era del 14 de junio de este año, ruta 5 sur, tramo entre Talca y Chillán. Nada raro en él. Solo lluvia fina, la carretera mojada reflejando las luces, y yo comentando que el GPS se había puesto lento otra vez.

El video tenía 47 vistas cuando me desperté al día siguiente. Comentarios normales: "Buena vibra", "Se ve relajante", uno que decía "hermano, ¿qué es esa luz al fondo a los 3:47?". Revisé el minuto. Efectivamente, al fondo de la carretera, muy lejos, se veía un punto blanco que parpadeaba. Pensé que era un camión con luces defectuosas. No le di importancia.

Al otro día el video ya tenía 312 vistas y más comentarios extraños. "Roberto, ¿quién te acompañaba esa noche?" "La figura del espejo retrovisor no se mueve como tú". "A los 7:12 se escucha una voz que dice tu nombre". Empecé a ponerme nervioso. Volví a ver el video completo.

En el espejo retrovisor, efectivamente, había una silueta oscura sentada en el asiento del copiloto. Yo viajaba solo. Amplíe la imagen. La figura tenía mi misma gorra, mi misma chaqueta, pero la cara… la cara estaba borrosa, como si la cámara no pudiera enfocarla bien. La voz que mencionaban: puse audífonos y subí el volumen. Entre el ruido de la lluvia y el motor, se escuchaba clarito: "Roberto… sigue derecho".

Me cagué de miedo. Eliminé el video inmediatamente. Pero ya era tarde. Varias personas lo habían descargado y lo compartieron en grupos de Facebook de camioneros y en Reddit. Empezaron a llegarme mensajes privados. Uno de un tipo de Osorno: "Hermano, yo vi ese mismo video hace dos años. El conductor se llamaba Roberto también. Murió en un accidente tres días después de subirlo".

Busqué en Google. Encontré reportes viejos: un camionero llamado Roberto Muñoz, 39 años, fallecido en la ruta 5 sur en 2022 tras salirse de la carretera sin motivo aparente. El video que subió antes de morir era casi idéntico al mío. Mismo tramo. Misma lluvia. Misma hora.

Pensé que era coincidencia. Hasta que esa misma noche recibí una llamada de un número desconocido. Contesté. Silencio. Luego, mi propia voz grabada: "Sigue derecho, Roberto. No mires el espejo".

Apagué el teléfono. No dormí.

Al día siguiente decidí investigar. Bajé todos los videos que había subido en los últimos años y los revisé uno por uno con edición lenta. En todos, desde hace casi un año, aparecía la misma figura borrosa en el asiento del copiloto. Siempre detrás de mí. Siempre quieta. En algunos videos se podía ver que su cabeza giraba lentamente hacia la cámara cuando yo no miraba.

Publicué un post en r/creepypasta y en foros chilenos explicando lo que pasaba. Me respondieron con historias parecidas: gente que grababa viajes, subía el material y luego desaparecía. Siempre el mismo patrón. La entidad no aparece si no grabas. Pero una vez que la cámara la captura, ya te tiene.

Anoche tuve que hacer otro viaje. No quería, pero el trabajo es trabajo. Esta vez no llevé la GoPro. La dejé en casa, guardada en un cajón. Conduje con la radio a todo volumen para no pensar. A la altura de Linares empezó a pasar algo raro. El GPS se apagó solo. Luego el radio también. Silencio absoluto dentro de la cabina, solo el motor.

Miré por el espejo retrovisor por instinto.

Allí estaba. Sentada. Perfectamente nítida esta vez. Era yo. Pero con los ojos completamente negros, sin blanco. Sonreía con una expresión imposible de describir. Movió los labios y escuché mi propia voz dentro de la cabina, aunque mis labios no se movían: "Ya no necesitas cámara, Roberto. Ahora viajo contigo".

Aceleré. El camión empezó a temblar como si algo lo estuviera empujando desde atrás. En el espejo, la cosa levantó la mano y tocó mi hombro desde el asiento de atrás. Sentí el contacto físico. Frío. Húmedo.

Logré llegar a Chillán. Estacioné, bajé corriendo y no miré atrás. Cuando volví por la mañana a buscar el camión para descargarlo, había una nota en el parabrisas escrita con mi letra:

"Gracias por el aventón. Nos vemos en el próximo video."

No he vuelto a subir nada. Pero esta mañana, mientras revisaba mi canal, vi que había un video nuevo subido hace 20 minutos. Desde mi cuenta. Duración: 3 horas 47 minutos. Título: "Última noche en la carretera - No veas el espejo".

No lo he abierto. Pero ya tiene 1.2k vistas.

Y los comentarios empiezan a decir que en el minuto 47:12 se me ve claramente en el asiento del copiloto… sonriendo.

Si estás leyendo esto y tienes un canal de viajes nocturnos, o simplemente grabas mientras conduces… borra todo. Ahora.

Porque una vez que te ve, ya no viajas solo.

Y yo... Creo que ya no estoy manejando este camión.

Esta historia esta basada en eventos que me han estado pasando en las últimas semanas. No se si es real o no, pero ya no quiero seguir conduciendo de noche.

People think medieval legends stay in history books, that jesters, feudal punishments, and blind wells were buried deep in the past. But there are things time cannot dissolve. Zkiel is not a modern man; he is a living relic of a cruel century that refuses to die. When you see him emerge in the dark with his jester's cap and his sewn-in eye, you realize the past never left... it was just waiting at the bottom of the well for someone to come looking.

I didn't believe those stories until last week. It all started when the local police began finding hollow bodies scattered around the old abandoned estate. At first, they thought it was just a typical serial killer, but the coroners noticed something deeply disturbing: every single victim had their eyes surgically, sadistically torn out. And that wasn't even the worst part. On the security camera footage from one of the nearby houses, whatever crawled out of the shadows did not belong to this century.

Digging through the oldest parish archives and the diaries of the estate's former nobility, I discovered the true reason behind his torment. Zkiel wasn't just any jester; he used his public platform to mock the hidden crimes of the town's powerful figures, exposing their darkest secrets to the court through riddles and precise mockeries that made people question their rulers. Fed up with him unearthing the truth, they decided to make a brutal example of him to silence him forever.

On a moonless night, in the service courtyard of that very estate, they hunted him down. First, they went for his left hand: with a curved needle and thick, rough hemp thread, the executioners cut off his thumb completely, leaving a bloody, open stump on the side of his palm. Then, they sliced open his flesh in a deep, vertical tear, forcing the remaining fingers apart into an unnatural posture. With sadistic, cross-shaped stitches, they pierced the skin of the fingers from side to side, gathering and squeezing it tightly until it became completely stiff and deformed, turned into a rigid, useless claw so he could never write or point at anyone ever again.

And the torment continued before he lost consciousness. Pinned against the freezing ground, they drove a metal tool into his right socket to rip his eye out completely, tearing through the nerves amidst screams no one dared to hear. But the sickest part wasn't the extraction—it was the fate of that bloody piece of flesh. Using the same shoemaker's needle, they took his own ripped-out eye and sewed it by hand directly onto the brim of his jester's hat, replacing the cheerful metal of the bell.

Satisfied with their macabre work of art, they bound his hands and feet and cast him into the wet, black abyss of a deep well, condemning him to drown while stagnant, freezing water filled his lungs for hours.

That prolonged asphyxiation and the perpetual darkness of the bottom corrupted what was left of him. The only eye they left him—the left one—withered over the years underwater, turning into a total milky white, an opaque, blind sphere that rolled back into his skull. They swore he had rotted away down there and that the centuries would erase him. But the well didn't destroy him; it turned him into a timeless specter that crossed the barrier of the years, exacting systematic vengeance against anyone who crosses his path.

I made the mistake of getting too close to that old brick-broken well the night I went to check the files. Peering over its edge into the blackness of the bottom, I understood too late how he hunts. You don't need to look for him; he finds you when you stir the curiosity of the living. Now I know exactly how he crawls through the lowest corners of rooms, throwing his weight onto his modified left hand, that crude claw scraping against the wooden floor with a dry, metallic sound.

His blind gaze cuts right through you: although his left eye is a dead, white sphere, he hunts by tracking the sound of your breathing and the frantic beating of your heart. I know this because the rhythmic, macabre echo of his own eye knocking against the fabric of his hat is already resounding at the entrance of my study. If you dare to stare into the dark, that blind white socket somehow fixes right onto you, while his monstrous tongue dangles heavily in the air. In that exact second, when you catch his broken smile and understand the origin of his name—that cursed echo between the water that consumed him and what remained of his old identity, the one everyone now whispers in terror as Drowzkiel—you realize that looking into the well was your death sentence.

A tired and exhausted trucker was going down his usual route it was very late. He stopped at a truckstop. He enter the store. But something didn’t feel right. The only person inside. Was him. No other customers were found. And the only other person there was the cashier. He didn’t think too much of it. And paid for his coffee. And got out. He got back in his truck and started driving again. Until he ended up back at the truckstop again. Just confused him. “ what the hell?” he said. But he continued driving. And again he was back at the truckstop. Panic was starting to set. He kept on driving and driving and driving… but no end was in sight and he always ended up back at the truckstop after all these times he has driven around. He finally entered the truck stop again. And ask the cashier for help. But the man saw that the cashier was turned around unresponsive. He yelled out. “HEY!” no response he got closer and then the cashier turned around but it was no longer a human the cashier now had a wide open mouth where his face should be sharp teeth in a long tongue replaced his face before the truck driver had time to react the cashier had jumped onto the trucker and he said in a distorted voice “ feel…my.. graph!” the next day he was found dead in the exact truckstop and was reported missing for about three months and the actual cashier just checked in and saw the horror the truckers organs somehow were removed and his mouth turned into a twisted smile and to this very day the truckers are its favourite food

The Gotham Guillotine, New York's sharpest socialist literary magazine, is seeking submissions for its Issue #3: Gothic Marxism.

We're accepting Gothic Marxist short stories, flash fiction, poetry, essays, and art.

Contributors will appear alongside work by Gretchen Felker-Martin, Jon Greenaway, Alison Rumfitt, and an interview with China Miéville.

Deadline: September 16, 2026.

Check out our first issue and our second issue to get an idea of what we like to read.

You can find us on Instagram, X, Bluesky, and Chill Subs.

Here are our submission guidelines!

For Issue #3, we’re switching over to Shunn Modern Manuscript Format with the caveats that you do not need to list your address and phone number. PDFs only!

The file name of your submission MUST be: [Title of Your Piece]_[Your Last Name]. Ex) The Great French Revolution, 1789-1793_Kropotkin

Short Stories

Up to 5,000 words.

We don’t have a word count sweet spot, but any submission over 3,000 words needs to earn those extra words. 

We love flash fiction, comics, and one act plays!

Poetry

Please submit up to 5 poems in one PDF. Your poems collectively should not exceed 10 pages. 

Arts Criticism/Essays

Up to 5,000 words.

We don’t have a word count sweet spot, but any submission over 3,000 words needs to earn those extra words.

We want socialist critiques of art, not artistic critiques of socialism.

There are plenty of amazing socialist publications that will publish your economic, philosophical, and historical manuscripts. We are not one of them. 

Art

We love art and need some for our magazine. If you’re a graphic artist or a painter or a photographer or a whatever, send us 5 pieces of your socialist art. It may appear in our next issue! JPG/JPEG only! 300dpi too!

If we like what we see, we may ask for more. But for now, please just send us up to 5 pieces.

Multiple and Simultaneous Submissions

Multiple submissions are only okay for Art and Poetry, not Fiction and Essays. Translation: you can submit up to ten pages of poetry or five pieces of art, but not ten short stories or five essays. You can only submit one short story or one essay. You cannot submit to multiple genres.

Simultaneous submissions are great! Just send us a message using the contact form if your piece has been accepted anywhere else. Congratulations! See you next time!

Reprint Policy

No reprints, please.

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I'm making this zine about how much I loved internet horror growing up. It's mostly me as a kid drawn into iconic old creepypasta pics. I liked how this one turned out the best.

-05/08/2005-

If anyone wants to read my dark comedy homage to early creepypasta slashers, I just published the first chapter on wattpad

I already sort of get the jist of most stories (EJ, Jeff The Killer, Nina The Killer, etc) but others confuse me lots (looking at YOU Ben Drowned or B.E.N or Benjamin or whatever the hell you are), like the slenderverse and Marble Hornets.. I think Marble Hornets is a separate universe from the Creepypasta one but im not too sure.. any tips?

I’m nine years old, and it’s Eid.

There’s a specific religious reason why we celebrate this day. I’m not really going to explain that. What I am going to explain is that, on this day, cool adults give kids like me money, and we go out and buy whatever we want with it.

My cousins and I are about to lose our minds with excitement. We had just collectively received enough money to buy fifteen video games.

The three of us piled into my uncle’s car, and he drove us to the video game store. Yes, that was a real place. And yes, there was once a magical object called a video game disc that you could actually buy and own forever. Shocking, I know.

Back then, games didn’t spend three years trapped in marketing campaigns. You didn’t watch the trailer, the teaser, the gameplay reveal, the developer diary, and half the walkthrough before release.

You walked into a store, stared at the covers, and picked whatever looked cool. If you were lucky, the guy behind the counter actually knew what he was talking about whenever you asked about a game. If you weren’t, his review consisted of one word:

“Guns.”

“Soccer.”

“Adventure.”

“Scary.”

“Cars.”

To be fair, those reviews weren’t completely useless.

The second my uncle parked his 2011 Crown Victoria before he’d even turned the engine off we jumped out and sprinted toward the store. The streets were completely empty. It was early morning on a holiday, and the summer heat had already become unbearable.

Inside, we went absolutely feral.

Each of us had fifty riyals, and every game cost ten, so we each got to choose five.

My oldest cousin had great taste. He bought Driver, Digimon world, Twisted Metal, Crash Bash, and Alone in the Dark.

His younger brother got some bullshit.

He bought some game about shooting chickens, a Japanese version of Winning Eleven where he couldn’t even read the menus because it was all Japanese, then announced he was saving the rest of his money for later (He spent it on ice cream.)

I wasn’t going to waste a single riyal.

I picked up two Digimon games—Rumble Arena and Card Battle. Then Porsche Challenge, which, in hindsight, was complete bullshit. It was a racing game where the only car you were allowed to drive was a Porsche 911.

I grabbed Twisted Metal 2 because my cousin had already bought Twisted Metal 3.

Then I realized something.

I hadn’t bought a horror game.

Sure, the fact that the final boss in Digimon Card Battle always opened with the exact same five cards was terrifying.

Sure, the fact that the only customization in Porsche Challenge was changing your car’s color was a nightmare in its own right.

But that wasn’t the kind of horror I wanted.

I wanted the kind that made you check behind the bathroom door every time you walked in.

The kind that made you close every half-open door because the darkness inside convinced you someone was peeking back.

That kind of horror.

So I asked the guy behind the counter where the horror games were.

He showed me the usual lineup.

Resident Evil? Already beat it.

Silent Hill? Already beat it.

Parasite Eve? Too hard.

Fatal Frame? Meh.

Alone in the Dark? My cousin already bought it.

Dino Crisis? That’s not even horror.

By now my uncle was getting impatient, but this was my last game, the only horror game I’d be getting for a long time.

I had to get it right.

Finally, my uncle looked at the employee and asked,

“What’s the scariest game you’ve got?”

The guy hesitated.

“I have one…”

He glanced at me.

“…but I don’t think it’s appropriate for someone his age.”

“What is it?”

“I really don’t recommend it.”

My uncle grinned.

He took that as a challenge.

“It’s for me.”

The employee smiled back.

It was that strange smile men exchange right before they knowingly do something stupid.

“You ever heard of The Knowledge Sun?” he asked.

My uncle frowned.

“Isn’t that the banned book about sorcery or something?”

“Yeah.”

The employee’s grin never faded.

“They made a video game out of it.”

He reached under the counter and placed the case in my uncle’s hands.

It looked… normal enough.

A giant golden book dominated the cover. Mummies and zombies crawled across the bottom, and between them, in huge golden letters:

THE KNOWLEDGE SUN

My uncle studied it for a moment before looking back up.

“So… what exactly am I looking at?”

The employee shrugged.

“Nothing. Not in this version, anyway. The original release actually had passages from the book recited by the monsters throughout the game.”

“They changed it?”

“They realized any Arabic sentence being whispered over creepy music already sounded creepy and mysterious to Western audiences, so they replaced the real passages with random Arabic phrases like ‘You will die’ and ‘Welcome to Hell.’ It was easier than dealing with the complaints.”

My uncle scoffed.

“This game summoned demons into my house zero out of five I want a refund.”

The employee chuckled.

“Not exactly. The complaints usually didn’t come from the people who played it. They came from their families.”

He leaned forward

“They’d say the person started acting strangely… said something about the game… then disappeared forever with the game”

He paused.

“Look, it’s probably bullshit at least I think it is. But evil spirits are real and we both know the book is real. And honestly what is sorcery, really? It’s a form of communication with those spirits in exchange for something you want.”

He shrugged.

“Maybe you don’t even need to practice sorcery. Maybe just getting close enough to it will accidentally invite some… unwanted guests”

A beat passed. He shrugged again.

“I don’t know. Resident Evil’s pretty good too.”

My uncle laughed and threw his hands in the air.

“Fair enough. I’m sold. But I want the original version, Not the bullshit censored one.”

“I have it. But It’s twenty-five.”

They haggled for a minute.

In the end, my uncle took my last ten riyals, added another ten from his own pocket, and handed over the money.

Then he pointed at the employee.

“You’re good. They should give you a raise.”

They both laughed and we left the store.

The moment we got home, my uncle insisted we try The Knowledge Sun first.

We loaded it up.

The monsters finally appeared.

Then they started talking.

“Sa yahtaweek al-dhalaam…”

…

It was unbelievably stupid.

Hearing badly pronounced Arabic in a Western horror game wasn’t scary.

It was hilarious.

The phrase meant, “The darkness will engulf you,” and somehow that only made it funnier.

My uncle stared at the screen in complete disbelief.

Then he groaned.

“That motherfucker cheated me! He charged me extra for the same censored version. Son of a bitch!”

He got up and walked out.

My cousins laughed, declared the game lame, and switched to Digimon Rumble Arena instead.

Honestly, Digimon was a lot of fun.

But deep down, I couldn’t wait to go back home and try The Knowledge Sun by myself.

I got back home, started the game, and immediately skipped the opening cutscene. Obviously. Back then, nobody cared about cutscenes. You jumped straight into the gameplay.

You played as an Indiana Jones-type adventurer running through a cave filled with mummified zombies. You pressed X to jump and Square to punch. Yes, you could actually punch the zombies in this game, which automatically made it a hundred times cooler than lame-ass Resident Evil or boring-ass Silent Hill. Sure, the zombies screamed random phrases in Arabic, but it was all goofy stuff like, “He’s right here!” or “Get him!” None of it was actually scary.

That was until I heard the sound of a tape rewinding.

The music stopped.

The screen glitched.

Then the PlayStation restarted.

The Sony logo appeared, followed by the PlayStation logo, but there was no sound. It was completely silent.

I got up to check the TV, thinking one of the audio cables had come loose. The second I got close, an image of fish appeared on the screen.

Real fish.

Just a screen full of real fish.

Then the image started zooming in and out, over and over, focusing on a single fish. At the same time, the room grew so dark it looked as if nothing in the world existed except me and the TV.

Then, as though the television itself had been a fish tank that suddenly shattered, a massive pile of fish burst out of the screen.

I looked beside me.

There was a kid, about my age.

His skin was dark blue. The area around his mouth and jaw bulged outward. His grin exposed huge gums packed with long, needle-like shark teeth. Even worse, his eyes looked wrong. The whites and blacks were reversed.

The kid opened his mouth.

I heard the tape rewind sound again.

My vision stretched from left to right, farther and farther, until the entire world collapsed into a single line across the middle of absolute blackness.

Then I jolted awake in my mother’s arms.

I didn’t cry or scream when it happened.

I was already crying and screaming louder than I ever had in my life. I had just been completely unaware of it until that moment, almost as if I had only then woken up to reality.

My mom held me tightly, reciting prayers as she gently rubbed my forehead. My dad stood in the doorway, watching from a distance. After realizing I wasn’t physically hurt, he let out a quiet sigh of relief and walked away.

I never saw the disc again.

I don’t know what happened to it.

When I asked my mom about it, she said she had no idea what I was talking about and insisted no such disc had ever existed.

I asked my cousins too.

They said we never bought a game like that.

They said the conversation my uncle had with the guy at the video game store never happened.

I’m 32 years old, And it’s Eid.

I took my little girl to the video game store.

And by that I mean I opened the PlayStation Online Store and told her to pick a game we could download and play that night.

She was beyond excited. Her mom had never let her play or watch anything horror-related, but today was different.

Today was Eid!

We scrolled through game after game, and I took my time. This was going to be her first horror experience. I didn’t want her to play something bad and walk away thinking all horror games were lame. I also didn’t want to replay something I’d already finished. I’d be bored, and she’d notice. I wanted to be excited, confused, and terrified WITH her.

That’s what horror is all about!

Resident Evil 9. Already beat it.

Silent Hill f. Already beat it.

Visage. Too hard.

MADiSON. Meh.

Then I saw it.

I froze.

A wave of dread shot through my body like a needle driven straight into my vein.

There it was.

The Knowledge Sun 2.

“When…? Wha-“

My voice caught in my throat.

The creature I had seen beside me that day was right there on the cover, staring at me exactly the way it had twenty-three years ago.

The room grew dark.

Not dim.

Dark.

Until, once again, nothing in the world existed except me and the TV, floating in a sea of pitch-black emptiness.

Then I heard my daughter beside me.

“Hey, Papa.”

Her voice began to distort, sinking lower and lower until it became a wet, gargling growl.

In the back of my mind, I heard it again.

The sound of a tape rewinding.

Then a voice whispered:

“You like sequels?”

I was working on a retake of "7/25/2005" BTW

Stupid, right ?

A cat. A pointless little feline. Dead.

Took a chunk of moldy plaster right mid-purr.

The kind of thing you see in cartoons, except this wasn't funny.

He was stiff as a board, eyes glazed over, like a meat package abandoned by God.

I thought to myself :

"Okay, that's sad. But also kind of a waste."

And given the state of my fridge, I thought:

"What's the difference with a rabbit, really ?"

Anyway, eating this goddamn cat seemed like a not-totally-unreasonable idea.

At the time.

So I hauled him up to the kitchen and started skinning him.

I figured it'd be like a rabbit.

It is not like a rabbit.

It doesn't slide, it snags,

the skin clings like you're ripping out nails.

So I pull hard.

One sharp yank.

And then... the cat starts screaming.

Like, he wasn't dead.

You know that moment your brain blue-screens ?

Yeah. Same thing.

Me, frozen like a cerebral heart attack, the cat half-skinned, howling like a demon on ketamine in my kitchen...

Obviously, I wanted to end his suffering, you get it ?

That's not cruelty.

I'm not a monster.

He's screaming, twisting, his backside turned inside out like a sock,

and I'm just standing there, neurons evaporating in real time.

So I stop thinking.

I go : "Gotta do it fast. Something heavy, one clean hit."

I grab a rock.

Not a meditation pebble, mind you : a big chunky urban rock I had as exotic decor on my dresser.

I aim for the top of the skull, telling myself : "Boom. Done. Curtain."

And I strike.

And... yeah, I think I missed.

Or maybe the little bastard moved.

No idea.

Because the skull did crack, sure.

There was a wet sound, a kind of disgusting splotch like stepping on a snail...

But he kept moving.

I watched his eye start trembling like it was still trying to have one last thought,

before popping out of its socket like a toad.

And that's when I started panicking.

Like an idiot.

Like, genuinely.

I stood up too fast, elbow knocked the table,

and the goddamn salt I hadn't put away from lunch spilled right onto his wounds...

The scream he let out, man.

That wasn't a meow.

That was an ancient cry dissolving in real time.

The kind of wail that precedes disasters in movies.

Christ.

At that point I just wanted to vanish into a manhole.

So I tell myself : "Okay. Enough. Finish it."

So I grabbed my old butter knife (yeah, I don't own a butcher knife, I'm a pacifist so nothing sharp in my place) and aimed for the heart.

You know ? The heart.

Like in vampire movies.

I try to channel that Pulp Fiction scene, but it's not the same.

No Uma Thurman here.

So I focus.

Try to empty my mind, Shaolin monk style, and...

THWACK !!

One clean hit. Final. Respectful.

Straight into the stew pot.

But I panicked.

And I stabbed.

Slightly off.

Like, really off.

It's not a cat anymore.

It's a Chupa Chups fresh out of the wrapper.

At that point, I swear, he looked at me with his one freestyling eye.

And I felt the full weight of that stare.

Man, I didn't know where to put myself.

He just made a sound... a kind of rattle.

Like he was judging me.

And then nothing.

Dead. Finally.

It wasn't even my cat, by the way.

It was the neighbor's.

The annoying old guy down the hall.

The one who wears Crocs.

So I think : this isn't possible. Too much has happened.

I can't just turn him into a leg of lamb like nothing happened. I have to return him to his owner.

Out of respect.

There's a minimum level of decency required.

Maybe he'll want him back.

To get him stuffed.

Or mount his head somewhere.

It was his cat, damn it.

Not mine.

So I wrapped the cat in an old Nirvana t-shirt,

and left him on the guy's doorstep.

With a little apology note: "sorrrrrry ^^"

And I left.

And then, I swear... I hear a meow.

Not a cute little kibble-meow.

Something raspy.

Filthy.

A ghost-meow. A cry from beyond the grave,

like the cat had just resurfaced from the ninth circle of hell.

So I reopen the door, hands shaking like a virgin teenager whose first bra strap just snapped loose...

I see the thing writhing under the fabric.

Like a space parasite.

That's when my brain disconnects.

I go full survival-mode idiot.

It's not a cat anymore.

It's straight-up divine punishment.

No more pity.

No more morals.

I launch Operation Tartiflette.

I grab the resurrected corpse,

stagger to the kitchen,

open the oven like a shaman opening a portal to another dimension,

and shove him in.

Literally.

Not cruelly, mind you.

I arrange him nicely. Nestle him in the baking dish.

A bed of vegetables underneath.

A little drizzle of olive oil for presentation.

I close the door.

And preheat to 425°F.

Then I wait.

Three minutes. Four.

My heart beating louder than the timer.

And suddenly : DING !!!

The oven door blows open.

Black smoke pours out like a demonic purge,

and in the middle of it all, the cat... STANDING.

Paws charred, muzzle smoking,

one eye dangling like a prima ballerina,

and a scream.

Not an animal scream.

A scream that talks to you.

That says : "YOU CHOSE ME, ASSHOLE !!"

Honest truth.

I threw the oven out the window.

I repeat : I threw the oven out the window.

With the cat inside.

23 floors.

And I didn't even check if he was actually dead.

I just heard a BOOM, followed by a "FUUUUCK" somewhere down in the street,

but I didn't dare look.

Too filthy.

Too biblical.

I collapsed on the tile floor, sweating.

Heart in shambles, boxers soaked, hands reeking of olive oil.

But you know what the worst part of this whole story is ?

The thing that made me hop on the first plane out without even checking the destination?

It's not the cat, skinned like a Mister Freeze popsicle.

It's not the charred corpse speaking in tongues.

It's not the trauma,

or the fact that I chucked a brand-new appliance off a 23rd floor.

No.

The worst part...

Is that the next morning,

there was a package on my doorstep.

With a Post-it.

Scrawled in a rush :

"Oven returned. Cat still warm. You're weeeeelcome ^^"

Hope it's peaceful in Syros.

When I was eight years old, I watched something tear the arms off a cartoon character while my mother folded laundry beside me. She didn’t see anything.

I’m thirty-one now, and I’ve spent most of my life learning how to live with that creature. For years, it existed only inside screens, televisions, games, movies, videos and I told myself that no matter how horrible the things it showed me became, there was still glass between us.

Two weeks ago, it started appearing in my building’s security footage.

Last night, it knocked twice from the inside of my laptop screen.

Imagine a person who never finished loading. It is impossibly tall and thin, with arms too long for its body. Some parts are perfectly detailed: pores, fingernails, veins beneath gray skin. Other parts are missing and filled with whatever is behind it, as if the world is trying to occupy spaces its is behind it, as if the world is trying to occupy spaces its body forgot to complete.

Its face never stays the same. Eyes shift to the wrong places. A mouth appears where a cheek should be. Sometimes it looks like a skull wrapped in wet skin; sometimes it borrows human features and loses them seconds later.

Only one detail never changes: a scar cutting through its left eyebrow.

I don’t know anyone with that scar.

The first time I saw it, I was watching a cartoon we had recorded on VHS. It was about two brothers traveling through space with a talking dog, and I knew the episode by heart. That was why I noticed the figure standing behind an alien tree.

I thought the tape was damaged until it tilted its head.

The cartoon froze, but the tape didn’t. Stars still blinked.

The creature moved closer without walking; every frame simply placed it nearer. When it reached one of the boys, it pushed its fingers into his mouth and pulled. His body opened like torn paper.

What came out wasn’t blood or organs but pieces of color which the creature pressed into the unfinished holes in its chest.

Then it looked straight at me.

I screamed until my mother turned off the television. When she turned it back on, the boy was alive.

After that, I saw it everywhere.

In a racing game, it stood in the middle of the track until my car hit it, then the vehicle folded inward around its body like crushed foil.

In a children’s show, it held a smiling rabbit by the head and pulled until its neck stretched across the screen.

During a movie at school, it pushed an actress into a wall and watched while the plaster swallowed her. Nobody else reacted. My classmates laughed while, on my screen, people screamed.

The only person I told was my younger brother, Tomás.

Tomás was three years younger than me, with hair so blond it was almost white and a gap where one front tooth had been knocked out in a bicycle accident.

He never saw the creature, but he believed me.
If I pointed to a corner of the television and whispered that the man was there, Tomás would stare at the spot and ask what it was doing.
He wore a cheap blue plastic watch that had stopped working, and whenever he wanted me to follow him, he tapped its face twice with his index finger, as if we were late.

Two taps, then he would run and expect me to follow.

When I was eleven, our house caught fire.

For most of my life, my memory of that night began in the backyard. I remembered standing barefoot on wet grass while smoke poured from the roof, my mother screamed Tomás’s name, and a firefighter disappeared inside.

They found my brother much later.

He died before he reached the hospital.

Everyone told me that children hide during fires.

They said he must have panicked, gone into the small storage room beside the kitchen, and become trapped by the smoke.

I accepted that explanation because the alternative was a blank space in my memory.

After Tomás died, the creature disappeared for almost a year.

When it came back, I was watching a comedy with my mother. It walked through the apartment door as if it were part of the cast, placed both hands on an actor’s head, and squeezed until the face collapsed between its palms.

My mother laughed at a joke.

On the version I was seeing, the creature killed everyone in the scene.

From then on, it never really left.

I stopped playing games at fifteen and movies at seventeen. In college, I invented excuses whenever friends invited me to the cinema.

Then it began appearing on my phone too, peeling skin from a singer, pushing makeup brushes through a woman’s eyes, dismantling an animated child piece by piece.

Eventually I discovered a rule that made life possible: it needed someone inside the screen.

A character, an actor, a person in a video.

Empty screens were safe.

For years, I built my life around that rule.

Then, two weeks ago, it changed.

I work for a company that manages commercial buildings, and one night I had to review security footage after a reported theft. While fast-forwarding, I saw myself enter an elevator.

The creature stepped in behind me.

I paused the video because I remembered that moment.

I had been alone.

In the footage, it stood so close that its chest nearly touched my back, and when the doors slid shut it lifted one hand and tapped its wrist twice.

I rewound the recording.

It did it again.

Two taps.

Tomás’s gesture.

That night I dreamed about smoke, and when I woke up, twenty years of missing memory came back all at once.

Tomás and I had been fighting before the fire.

He had broken a box of porcelain figurines that belonged to our grandmother, and I chased him through the house. He ran into the storage room beside the kitchen.

I slammed the door and locked it from the outside with a small key.

I meant to leave him there for five minutes, just long enough to scare him.

Then I heard my mother coming home and panicked because I knew I would be punished, so I put the key in my pocket.

Not long afterward, the fire started.

We never knew exactly how.

I remember the smoke now.

I remember my mother dragging me outside.

Most of all, I remember the firefighter kneeling in front of me in the yard and asking, “Is anyone else inside?”

I knew Tomás was in the storage room.

The key was still in my pocket.

But I was terrified of admitting what I had done, so I shook my head and said no.

I only told the truth when my mother began screaming his name.

Until then, the firefighters had been searching the bedrooms.

They lost minutes.

Maybe ten.

Maybe fifteen.

I have never had the courage to find out.

There is one more thing I erased: while my mother pulled me toward the front door, I heard Tomás pounding on the storage room door.

I heard him, and I kept running.

The night I remembered, I opened my laptop and said his name.

The screen flickered.

The creature appeared in front of the storage room door and tapped its wrist twice.

The next morning, I went to my mother’s house and found the old computer we used as children.

Inside was a folder called TOMAS.

My mother swore she had never created it.

There was one file.

When I opened it, our old kitchen appeared, not quite like a recording but like a memory filmed from somewhere inside the house.

I watched my eleven-year-old self chase Tomás.

I watched him run into the storage room.

I saw my own hand close the door and heard the key turn.

The creature stood in the hallway, watching.

Then the fire began.

The image shifted to the backyard, where the firefighter knelt in front of the child version of me and asked if anyone else was inside.

Behind her, the creature’s face changed from mine to Tomás’s and then to the face of a boy I had never seen before, a boy with a scar through his left eyebrow.

I started crying and said everything out loud.

I admitted that I locked the door, that I had the key, that I lied to the firefighter, and that I heard Tomás pounding while I ran outside.

As I spoke, the creature began to fall apart.

Pieces of its body dropped away like dead pixels.

Its face split open, and underneath was my own face at eleven years old.

There was no scar.

The child opened her mouth, but instead of a scream I heard a fire alarm, followed by two knocks.
Then the screen turned white and the computer shut down.

For four days, the creature was gone.

I watched an entire movie and nobody died.

I opened random videos.

Nothing happened.

I played a game for two hours without seeing it once.

For the first time in twenty years, I wondered if my psychiatrist had been right.

Maybe the creature had always been guilt given a body by a memory I refused to face.

Maybe confessing had killed it.

Then my mother found an old tape recorded three days before the fire.

Tomás was sitting in front of the television playing a video game while I did homework in the background.

Halfway through the recording, the creature appeared inside the game.

The camera had captured it.

I paused, rewound, and watched again.

It was still there.

That had never happened before.

Then Tomás stopped playing and stared directly at it.

He could see it.

The creature raised one hand and tapped its wrist twice.

Tomás smiled and copied the gesture.

“Can you see it too?” he asked.

From the background, my younger voice answered, “See what?”

The creature killed his character, tearing it open and filling one of its empty arms with pieces of the body.
But afterward it didn’t look at Tomás.

It looked past him, directly at the little girl sitting in the background.

At me.

As if it already knew what was going to happen.
I closed the video.

The screen went black, and I heard two knocks behind me.

Not from the computer.

Behind me.

In the reflection, the creature was standing in the room, outside the screen, almost completely formed.

Tomás stood beside it, still eight years old, still missing his front tooth.

He didn’t look afraid.

He pointed at the creature’s face, where the scar cut through the left eyebrow, and shook his head.
I understood.

The scar had never belonged to him.

The tapping gesture had.

The faces the creature wore came from somewhere else.

Some were mine.

Some belonged to people I had never met.

Maybe that is what it has been doing all this time: collecting faces, gestures, memories, scars.

Maybe every fictional character it killed taught it how bodies work, and every person it haunted left something inside it.

Now I see real people dying on screens.

My mother on my phone.

My boss in security footage.

My neighbor on television.

Yesterday, during a video call, I watched the creature break my therapist’s neck while she continued speaking normally.

They are all still alive in the real world.

For now.

I’m writing this on my mother’s computer because my laptop stopped working.

The screen keeps flickering.

In the reflection, the creature is standing behind me, and its face is changing between Tomás, my mother, me, and that unknown boy with the scar.

Now it has stopped changing.

It is wearing my face, but its hands are burned black all the way to the wrists.

Mine aren’t.

Not yet.

Tomás is beside it, pointing at the screen.

At first I thought he was pointing at me, but he isn’t.

The creature isn’t looking at me either.

It is looking at the camera.

At whoever is reading this.

It has raised one hand and pressed two fingers against its wrist.

One tap.

Then another.

And now it is waiting to see if you follow.

Era uma noite fria de inverno como sempre Jane The Killer estava caçando o Jeff The Killer mas aquela noite era estranha mais silenciosa do que de costume não há sinal do Jeff ou de qualquer outra Creepypasta apenas silêncio Jane passa por um parque as folhas das Árvores voando sobre o vento o frio a dor o ódio Jane sente tudo isso mas ela não se importa ela quer o Jeff ela quer matar o homem que destruiu sua vida por completo de repente Jane se encontra com um garoto ele parece ter uns 18 anos no auge da vida humana com cabelos loiros pele clara pupilas verdes e azuis dois olhos de duas cores diferentes cabelos loiros unhas pintadas de preto e ele está usando um terno preto com gravata amarela o ar parece mais frio como se o mundo temesse aquele homem mas ele não parece ameaçador mas sim com uma beleza quase angelical ele se aproxima mas Jane levanta a faca e aponta para ele e diz.

Jane The Killer: Não se aproxime, quem é você e o quê quer?

O Garoto coloca uma mão no bolso e a outra no peito ele sorri olhando para a Jane incrivelmente sem medo é como se ele já esperasse por isso de alguma forma misteriosa ou sobrenatural ele diz num tom calmo.

Louis Cyphre: Acalme-se Garota... eu estão aqui apenas para conversar eu me chamo Louis Cyphre.

Jane não abaixa a faca ela ainda se sente desconfiada conversar? Para quê isso? Ela não conversa com ninguém a anos desde da tragédia mas Jane não tem tempo para ficar de papo furado com um desconhecido então ela diz.

Jane The Killer: ...Louis Cyphre? Que nome... estranho eu não tenho tempo para conversar agora eu tenho que caçar o Jeff aquele desgraçado merece morrer.

Louis Cyphre: E por quê ele teve morrer? Pelo que eu sei o Jeff também sofreu assim como você garota.

Jane arregala os olhos atrás da Máscara como ele sabe? Isso não faz sentido Jane nunca viu esse garoto na vida esse tal de Louis Cyphre mas... parece que ele conhece mais ela do que a própria Jane isso era assustador? Sim mas Jane não sente medo ela ainda mantém a postura e diz.

Jane The Killer: Como você sabe? Eu nunca te vi na minha vida... e parece que você sabe mais sobre mim do que eu mesma.

Jane finalmente abaixa a faca ainda surpresa com a situação mas então o silêncio toma conta por alguns minutos Até que o Louis se aproxima da Jane sem ameaçar ele apenas diz.

Louis Cyphre: Eu conheço você Jane Arkensaw... não só você mas todos nesse universo sua força é algo admirável para uma garota com uma história tão trágica eu não estou aqui para julgar eu estou aqui para dizer que sua vingança é apenas uma ilusão eu sei exatamente como você se sente garota... por quê ambos temos histórias trágicas mas... apenas seja forte e não confie em ninguém nem mesmo em teus amigos por quê a confiança leva a traição e dá traição leva a destruição e dá destruição leva a morte... mas mesmo assim te desejo boa sorte a tua vingança tenha uma boa noite.

De repente o Louis se vira e começa a se afastar da Jane mas logo a Jane diz meu desesperada e um pouco agradecida.

Jane The Killer: Espera!

Louis olha para trás com um "hum?" Jane diz.

Jane The Killer: Quem é você? Eu quero dizer quem é você de verdade você é um anjo ou Demônio!?

Louis ri baixinho ele se vira sorrindo para a Jane e diz.

Louis Cyphre: Sou os dois... sou a Estrela da manhã e a Estrela da noite sou o anjo mais belo dos céus sou o primeiro anjo caído sou o Lord do Caos Lúcifer agora tenho que ir Jane mas foi uma experiência incrível conversar com você mais uma vez tenha uma boa noite de caça até mais.

De repente Louis Cyphre desaparece como uma sombra como se ele nunca estivesse ali Jane fica extremamente surpresa e impressionada ela conversou com o próprio Diabo em Pessoa mas ela não sente medo pelo contrário ela sente orgulho ela sorri atrás da máscara como se aquela conversa tivesse dado forças para ela continuar depois de uma risadinha Jane continua sua caçada normalmente só que com mais força e determinação dizem que o Diabo vai aparecer como um mostro de chifres mas na verdade ele ama disfarces.

In March 1922, on an isolated farm in Bavaria, someone murdered an entire family of six — and then stayed. He fed their cattle. He ate their food. He slept in their house. For days, smoke kept rising from the chimney. Neighbors saw it and assumed the family was simply staying indoors. When police finally searched the property, they found six bodies stacked in the barn, covered with straw, killed with a mattock — a farm tool, half pickaxe, half hoe. The maid's body was still warm. The killer had lived alongside the corpses for nearly a week. He was never caught. And to this day, no one knows why.

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*[STORY] I found a Diamond cartridge on Iron Island and the game turned into fire*

_Posted by: DiamondFanClub_
_Date: 08/14/2009 - 02:47_

Guys, I need to vent because I'm really scared.

Last week I bought a Pokémon Diamond cartridge from a used bookstore here in Curitiba. 15 reais. The guy said, "It's fully completed, but there's a bug on Iron Island." I thought, okay, I'll just start over.

I got home and turned on my DS Lite.

There was no New Game option. There was already 1 save: 203:11h. Trainer name: "." ID: 00000 Hall of Fame: Completed.

I opened the party: *Infernape Lv100*
*Empoleon Lv100*
*Torterra Lv100*
*Garchomp Lv100*
*Staraptor Lv100*
*Snorlax Lv100*
None of them had nicknames or an OT. Perfect movesets. Items: all holding Leftovers.

I thought, "Wow, that's a great team." I saved and went to test it.

I was on Iron Island, inside the cave. The music was normal at first. I walked over to Riley. He wasn't there. At the back of the cave there was a stone door I'd NEVER seen in Diamond. It read: *"FURNACE CHAMBER"*

I went inside. The screen took a little longer than usual to load.

It was a huge circular room. In the middle was a pit of lava. Around it were six stone pedestals. On top of each one were some ashes. There was no music. Just the sound of the lava.

A message appeared on the screen, letter by letter, slowly: _"The Furnace needs fuel."_ I tried to leave. The door locked. Then it started. It wasn't a battle. A 30-second timer appeared in the corner of the screen. When it hit 0:00, my character walked on his own and threw Empoleon into the lava. The animation was bizarre. His sprite started melting from top to bottom. The Pokémon's cry played in a distorted way. After about two seconds, a blue flame lit up on one of the pillars. Message: _"Empoleon fed the Furnace."_

The timer reset to 30 seconds.

It happened again. Torterra burned while screaming, lighting another flame. Garchomp tried to swim away but also melted, lighting another one. Staraptor melted very quickly, even while trying to fly out, lighting the fourth flame. Snorlax took longer. He kept trying to get out, but nothing worked, lighting the fifth flame.

Only *Infernape* was left. The 30-second timer ended, and my character threw him into the lava, but he jumped back out.

He burned too. The entire right side of him was dark, he was missing an eye and an arm, and his brain was exposed. His HP dropped to 1. Status: Burn. But he didn't die. He stayed in the party, constantly making a sound of pain. Another flame lit up. Message: _"The Furnace is satisfied."_ The door opened.

I left the cave. All of Iron Island was gray. The ground was cracked. The sky was orange. No NPCs. No music. Just wind and static.

I walked to the top of the island. And for some reason, Cynthia was there. She had her back turned. When I got close, she turned around.

No dialogue. The battle started immediately. *ME: Infernape Lv100, 1 HP, Burn*
*HER: Full team, Lv78* I'm not going to lie, I cried at this part. Her Pokémon were injured, with some limbs missing and vital organs exposed. Spiritomb went down from one Flare Blitz. Roserade too. Togekiss, Lucario, Milotic... each one fell and disappeared without any animation. Just the message _*The enemy Pokémon died.*_ When her Garchomp came out, I used Mach Punch. My Infernape took burn damage, and I got the message: _*Infernape died.*_

The screen turned white. Cynthia appeared in a state similar to her Pokémon and disappeared.

Ten seconds of a black screen. Just me hearing my own breathing. Then A SINGLE BLUE FLAME appeared in the middle of the screen. Blinking. Then these messages appeared: _"The Furnace is hungry."_ _"Someone needs to feed it."_ _"You are the last one."_

My trainer sprite started walking toward the small room on its own. My character jumped into the lava, and the screen went black, with only his scream audible for a few seconds. Final message: _"Thank you for playing Pokémon Diamond."_ _"The Furnace is satisfied."_

The game saved automatically. The DS shut itself off. I turned it back on just now in the middle of the night to see if it was a dream. There's no save anymore. On the title screen, instead of the Pokémon Diamond logo... There's a spinning blue flame. If I press A, the game closes. I don't know what to do. I threw the cartridge away, but I'm scared to turn the DS on again. Has anyone ever seen this? Is it a hack? A cartridge virus??

_Edit: I took a photo with my phone, but the screen only came out black._

I keep on seeing these creepy looking eyes every night , they are always only visible in my peripheral vision but disappear once I look in their direction. They only appear in shrubs or bushes but it's always when I'm in that area , I started wondering if I was just seeing things but why would I manifest something just to make myself paranoid ? . One night I got tired of being taunted by these things , I grabbed some pop-it's (the fireworks) and put about 8 of them in my pocket , I turned away from a bush behind me and then I quickly turned , I caught a glimpse those creepy glowing eyes and then threw the fireworks into the bush , to my surprise the thing that had been stalking me turned out to just be a stray cat , luckily the cat wasn't hurt he was just scared away , poor cat just ran under a different bush. I thought my fears were finally laid to rest but then as I walked back home more eyes began appearing in the bushes , last time I checked cats didn't have red eyes.