Sunday, June 29, 2008
My boyfriend Gareth has introduced me to an entertaining internet game, by the name of 'creepypasta': making up realistic-sounding urban legends and horror stories. Apparently the name comes from 'copy paste' stories, which became 'copypasta', meaning stories that people pasted and forwarded to each other a lot, hence 'creepypasta'. Click on the link and you can see some examples.
So, who wants to play? Here are a few from me:
Kissing a Mirror
If there's someone you want to make your own, there's a simple spell you can do. Press your mouth against a mirror at sunset and whisper the name of your beloved; then draw back and look at the shape your lips have left in the steam of your breath. If they form a perfect circle, your beloved will kiss you before the month is out.
But be very careful when whispering the name. If your teeth touch the glass, it will bring the kiss - but it will come at night, in your dreams. The creature that appears will have the face of your beloved, but its kiss will suck our your heart.
The Concrete House
There's a building in Lewisham they call Concrete House. It's overgrown with ivy, the walls cracked and the struts all fallen in, but the local council preserves it because it's one of the first houses ever built entirely of that material in the country. If you look in the council records, you will see that it's marked 'undergoing renovation', and indeed, there are walls around it, with barbed wire along the top – but the funny thing is, night or day, nobody has ever seen builders working there.
The walls are too high to see easily over, but if you stand on tiptoe, you can see the uppermost window of the house. Whatever led to the last owners leaving, they must have left in a hurry, because they didn't take all their stuff; there's a cork board still on the upper wall, papers on it fluttering in the wind. That's all most people see.
Sometimes kids go there on Halloween, peep over the fence with their torches, and swear they've seen faces looking out of the window, but there's no way that could be. The house is a shell, and the floors fell in long ago.
They say that on windy autumn days, the ivy rattles with a sound like scratching nails. The board through that window has dozens of papers pinned to it, but the rain and time must do their work. Sometimes they come loose. If ever you go near the Concrete House and see a paper blowing in the wind, pass on by. Whatever you do, don't pick it up. You will not recover from what you read there.
The Suicide Shoes (worked out in collaboration with Gareth, credit where it's due)
In 2006 there was a wave of suicides among young men in Bristol, all of whom had jumped off buildings, screaming they could fly. None of them knew each other, and all they seemed to have in common was that, at the time of their deaths, every one of them was out jogging.
Finally, an observant police officer noticed that there was a strange symbol, like a cross with eyes, written with permanent ink and hidden under the insole of one of the victims' shoes. When they investigated further, they found the same mark, always in a different place but always somewhere you wouldn't normally see, in every pair of suicides' shoes.
Forensic scientists examined the shoes, and found that their fabric had been saturated in some unidentified drug that looked a bit like a hallucinogen. The victims had suffered no ill effect when trying the shoes on before buying them, but once they started running, the sweat from their feet made the shoes damp, and the drug soaked into their skin.
Interpol traced all these shoes back to a single batch, produced in a particularly harsh sweatshop in South America. When asked about them, all the workers could say was that 'Papa Bird' had visited the day they were made.
'Papa Bird' has never been identified, and no arrests have taken place.
Ooh, this sounds like the Anti-Glurge! "Glurge" is the name given by the snopes boards to the sappy, sickly-sweet stories with a Moral that is actually quite creepy when you think about it, that make you sick to your stomach by the combination of saccharine schmalz and Warped Aesop (thanks, TV Tropes Wiki!) and which often involve such stock characters as The Cardboard Unbeliever, the Littlest Cancer Patient, The Ugly Duckling, The Kicked Puppy, etc etc etc. These get forwarded around and end up becoming urban legends and often show up in sermons, in the US at least. Some of them are datable to the 19th century even, but have now graduated to endless email circulations (as well as the Chicken Soup for the Soul "inspirational" books, which only inspire me to want to create a Hemlock For The Soul line to counter them.)
"DIY Glurge" websites and forum discussions of how to create the Perfect Glurge story, with just the right combination of breathless belief, emotional chain-yanking, multicoloured fonts and pictures of bunnies/flowers/rainbows, are out there. This would go right along with.
The third one was really, really good.
I grew up pre-internet, when these kinds of stories were told (and retold) at slumber parties. I could really see the third one fitting right in with other Urban Legends.
I agree with Bellatrys: Urban Legends are fun, Chicken Soup stories are yukky.
A friend of mine once told me that her uncle, a man with a great fondness for the grotesque, had a favourite book of ghost stories which he loved to read at night, with the curtains drawn.
One day, my friend was visiting her uncle, and he wanted to show her a story from this collection. It was a book he had read dozens of times, but somehow he couldn't seem to find the particular story he was looking for. He was getting quite agitated, so my friend, to calm him down, said it was quite all right and why didn't they both have a nice cup of tea?
He walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on, still holding the book, and saying over his shoulder as he went through the door, "I'll find that damn story for you, if it's the last thing I do."
After a while, when there was no sound of boiling water and her uncle still hadn't come back, my friend went into the kitchen.
The room was empty. My friend never saw her uncle, or the book, again. She tells me she can no longer remember what the book was called.
One day, my friend was visiting her uncle, and he wanted to show her a story from this collection.
The story was called "The Missing Uncle".
Okay, I'll play...
If your children have a pet hamster or are asking for one, be VERY careful! One of the biggest chain pet stores in the country has recently been fined thousands of dollars for selling Himalayan Rats to unsuspecting parents. These noxious pests are thought to have first come here in illegal heroin shipments from Afghanistan, and are rapidly multiplying in sewers and garbage dumps across the country. To the untrained eye they look JUST LIKE ordinary hamsters, but can carry tuberculosis and the AIDS virus to humans. If you have bought a hamster recently DO NOT LET IT SCRATCH YOU!!! Get your veterinarian to check it for contagious diseases and to dispose of it. The pet stores will stop at nothing to sell you a disease ridden rat and take a profit thanks to drug smugglers! FORWARD THIS TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW!!
Cool! Expresses contemporary anxieties - nice touch about Afghanistan - plus Think Of The Children, worries about diseases and concern over the power of chain stores' lack of scruples! Very neat indeed. :-)
First attempt to post this was eaten by internet gremlins, so here goes again! A second effort:
Where the circle line runs in the open air, just after Farringdon on the way to Barbican, there is the faintest hint of an old tunnel. The bricks that make up the wall aren't quite the same colour, and there are marks on the ground where old tracks have been ripped up and the holes filled with cement. Occasionally you may see an elderly gentleman remove his hat for a moment as the train turns the corner, if he recalls what happened there.
The tunnel was a part of the original line, when the Metropolitan line terminated at Farringdon station. Under a small park and the street above there was room to store two trains while the crew had a tea break before the return run. When the line was extended the tracks curved away to one side, and the tunnel fell into disuse.
During World War II, like much of the underground, it was pressed into service as a bomb shelter. Several old carriages were parked in the tunnel, and a ladder built up the to street allowing safe haven for over 400 people. Throughout the blitz it was used by people from all walks of life, and saved untold lives.
However on the 24th of January, 1945, a series of V2 rockets struck London. Those who could ran for the shelter, and waited for the attacks to subside. The last of the rockets, carrying a deadly payload of high explosives and mustard gas, landed precisely on street above, causing the entrance to collapse.
Within minutes a crowd of people arrived to try and clear the debris. Three fell ill immediately upon reaching the site, while others struggled on until workers with gas masks arrived. However, as the intensity of the gas increased as they cleared closer to the tunnel entrance, it soon became clear that there would be no survivors inside.
When the workers broke through into the tunnel they found the area thick with a poisonous fog. Where there was bare metal it was covered in condensed vapour. The angle of the missile's descent had forced almost the entire payload of gas into this one small space. The train cars were still intact, but the bodies slumped on every seat were lifeless, not even having had time to rise before they were overcome.
It was deemed too dangerous to move the carriages and risk spreading gas throughout London, so a local minister was called to perform a mass funeral service from the lines outside, and the tunnel was bricked up. To this day the bodies remain where they sheltered from a rocket attack behind the wall just off the circle line.
Hello.Post a Comment
I am Mr. Welldone.
I watched the copulation which conceived you and I screamed in horror. I saw you birthed like a hatched parasite, hairless and gagging, and I grit my teeth in hatred, sliding them over each other again and again and again and again and again until they were flat and smooth. I will watch you wither and grow old, as your body congeals and the weight of your years pulls your flesh from your body and I will grin and snicker, laugh and laugh. I will see your desiccated corpse pumped full of superficial chemicals, interred into the dirt to feed the eyeless, subterranean creatures of the earth and I will howl because I know where you are going.
I know where you are going.
I know the secrets of this earth, as I knew the secrets of the one before it. I will bring about the End, and you cannot stop me.
You read these tales and you do not know that with each you read, with each you create and recreate, with each you retell, with each you claim ownership of, you beckon the End.
For there will be some among you who will try to verify these tales. You will seek them out. Those that do so with passion will find that many of them are falsehoods... but some will be harrowing at the very least. Others will leave you scarred for the rest of your fleeting days. Others still will leave you stripped of your flesh.
And that flesh will be used to build more, and more, and more tales. Twisted and stretched to cry out to more curious individuals.
And I will smile, my teeth clenching together tightly, tightly, tightly until one cracks with a satisfying pop. My eyes unblinking; watching everything fall into place; wide and empty; weeping and shriveling with delicious, protracted agony.
I am so excited. So very excited.
Even as you read this, some among you are emboldened. The sick part of you which lusts for the End whispers into your mind, making you want to see the horror, the pain, the blood, the death. You want to see it. You want to see what lies hidden in the dark, beyond sight, smell, taste, hearing, and touch.
Come and see.
I will show you such wonderful things.
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