Skeletripe: Your Creepypasta Sucks

Crappypasta autopsy

[skeletripe]

The Fear Mythos Sucks: Exhibit 1B

Rabbits We've been on the move since Thursday. First we headed West, then we turned Northward. I'm currently in a hotel in Maryland, typing this post out on my laptop. We've got all the blinds closed, and Crystal's keeping a handgun close by. Like her car, I have serious doubts that her money into acquiring it, but she's the one with the gun, so I just keep my mouth shut. We have never been given a reason to care about this asshole. His character is every bit as flat as when we started. Something weird happened yesterday. Well, two things weird happened: First: while we were moving through Northern Virginia, driving down a forested road, we had to abruptly stop on account of me really having to take a piss. I headed off road, into the trees, to do my business. Rabbits. So many rabbits. Just hanging there. From the branches. Some had the rope tied around their legs, others had hooks lodged in their backs, still some hung with nooses around their necks. Everywhere I looked, there were rabbits, hanging from the trees. Swaying in the breeze. Lifeless. Skinless. Some of them were rotted, with maggots crawling all over them, and green organs hanging limply from their skeletons. Others were fresher. Blood still dripped from a few, sliding off their red, glistening muscles and falling to the earth below, which drank their fluid greedily. Elmer Fudd finally snapped. Needless to say, I didn't need to pee anymore. Mostly because it was all running down my legs. Especially when I heard the bushes rustling, and a soft sound like a man laughing. I turned and ran, heading back to the car, not caring about the discomfort in my pants. Crystal made a face, asked me if I'd pissed myself, but I just yelled at her to drive. My panic apparently got through to her, and she complied. The second thing that happened? You may have noticed a new post on this blog, dated April 17, 1991. That's my birthday. Woop dee fucking doo. According to Crystal, I woke up in the middle of the night and posted that, without saying a word. Then I simply went back to sleep. She checked my computer, and was apparently too unnerved by that weird-ass post to get to sleep again. Slender Man. Archangel. Whatever these things are, they're hunting us. I don't know what they want. I don't know why we've been targeted. All I know is that I need to run. I need to run as fast as I can, as far as I can. And I need to pray that they don't catch me. Can't let this end too soon. Honest Work for Honest Pay So today I put all those hours on a construction site to good use and hung out in a Home Depot parking lot, looking for work. Luckily, some contractor was willing to take me on for a day, installing doorframes. He even bought me lunch. At the end of the day, he gave me a $50 bill for my work. Something tells me that all my work days won't go as well as this one, but you can't live with no money. Crystal also earned some cash today, doing... I'm not sure, exactly. I have my suspicions though, mostly concerning something I saw in one of her bags, but I'd rather not say anything and risk losing her company. We're all we have, so long as these things are after us. Is this story trying to imply that Crystal is a cirminal? It's doing it in a very hamfisted way. Gambling I managed to get another job today, though this time the carpenter who took me on only gave me $20 and didn't bother to feed me. My only consolation was finding $0.85 on the ground. Not much consolation, I'll admit. Anyway, long story short, Crystal took all $20.85 and bet in a Poker game. A games that, as she later confided to me, she was cheating in. But she managed to double the money, so I guess it's all good. We'll be moving to another town tomorrow. Crystal doesn't like being in one place for too long. Is this a creepypasta or the diary of a drifter? Early Birthday Present We're in a new hotel now and in a new state. I like it here. Nice and relaxing. Found a birthday present in the bathroom. Fun presents. Nice presents. How lovely. I love my birthday. April 17. Coming soon. I'll be 20. Add a 1. Drop a zero. Divide into three parts. Happy nosy number all over the place being all numbery. I like this hotel. The bed is nice and soft and fluffy. Crystal upset about something. Don't know what. Nice hotel. No reason to be sad. Maybe I should cheer her up. She can share my present. I thought I was the only one who wrote dada poetry on my birthday. © Joey's Sleeping This is Crystal. Joey's asleep right now. Or rather, he's passed out. As I guess you already figured out, he found some pills in the bathroom of this hotel room and took them. As soon as he did, he started acting weird, like everything was completely alright. He even kept telling me not to worry: "if they kill us, they kill us. That's just how it is." Who the fuck shoves pills they found in a hotel into their mouths? Eventually, he tried to get me to take some of the pills, and when I refused he tried to force some down my throat. I managed to stop him and get the pills away, and then he started screaming and ranting at me. Most of it was nonsense, but a couple phrases kept being repeated: "his face", "we are all the pieces", and "they are eternal". Then he just fell over and passed out on the bed. I don't know what happened. So I took the pills and dumped them all down the toilet. Shit, I don't know what the hell those pills are, but they aren't natural. I'm pretty sure they were the same ones he was taking before I met him. They can cause addiction after just a few uses, and then get your body dependent on them so much that you go into withdrawal after a couple hours without a dose. That's not normal no matter how you slice it. Trust me, I'd know. CLEARLY THIS IS A METAPHOR FOR ADDICTIONS ~Crystal A New Hotel and a New Ritual My head seems to be clearing up and I am no longer hallucinating, so that's good. I don't even know why I took those pills again-- it's not like I didn't know what they were, or what they would do to me. I just... sort of grabbed them as soon as I saw them. But anyway, I'm all better now. New hotel today. This time I was forbidden from entering until Crystal had checked it. She found a bottle of pills and flushed them before letting me in. Hopefully, another incident like that won't happen again. ...And hopefully I can restrain myself if I ever see those things again. I'm pretty sure even most addicts don't pop their drug of choice the second they see it lying around. Alcohol Got drunk last night, at Crystal's urging. Can't remember anything else. Woke up with my very first hangover. I don't care what new and creative names she comes up with to call me-- I ain't doing this again. I gotta go lie down... You sad little fucker, you never got shitfaced before? we know where you are DUN DUN DUNNNNNNN

I like how a bunch of dead rabbits and crazy magic pills weren’t enough to tip them off that they weren’t exactly safe. These two are real smort. © Still Being Followed So, after we saw that post Archangel left on this blog, we hightailed it out of that hotel and have been on the road since. We just now came to a stop at a new motel somewhere in... I think we're in Tennessee now. Look, is it just me, or is Joey kind of a prude? He's really shy and shit about a lot of things. Dude, we share a room, a car, and a life: I am not going to be traumatized by the sight of your penis. Also, I don't need you giving me those disapproving looks every time you see me with a cigarette. Joey really is a troper. Also, I love how Crystal doesn't even bother hinting at the obligatory romance subplot I'll admit it, OK: I fucked up with the beer thing. I didn't stop to think that Joey might not appreciate any mind-altering substances after the whole pill thing. I'm sorry, Joey. I know that not remembering what you did the other night and waking up with a headache terrifies you, but trust me when I say that nothing bad happened. Basically, you just complained about Slender Man and Archangel, started muttering about pieces and faces again, then you groped me and tried to kiss me, then you threw up on my lap and passed out. Considering the things I've done while drunk, it was actually pretty tame. But once again, I'm sorry. I didn't think. ~Crystal Happy Birthday to Me So today is my birthday. Hurray. Running aimlessly around the country while trying to avoid monsters wasn't exactly what I had in mind for my birthday, but whatever. I'm rooting for the monsters now, you whiny shit. Crystal's out doing... something. Not sure what. I haven't done much of anything all day. Not much to report about the past few days either. Find work where I can get it, survive. Somehow running for my life is beginning to settle down into a routine. Hold on, I think Crystal's back. I hear someone knocking on the door. Behind Closed Doors I guess I should tell you what happened yesterday. Crystal's been shot. She won't let me take her to a hospital. She insists she'll be fine. The bullet got her in the leg. She tells me there won't be any lasting damage. I'm not so sure. After what I learned, I'm not sure if I want her to recover from this. Yesterday's post ended with me saying there was someone at the door. You'll never guess who. Turns out some of the local drug dealers decided they wanted to pay Crystal a visit. Apparently, she and that new drug of hers have been intruding on their turf. You see where there is going? Woah, hold on.... You thought it was a good idea to hamfist a drug dealing subplot into this? No sooner had I opened the door then I was pistol whipped into unconsciousness. I woke up tied to a chair like in some shitty action movie. But unlike shitty action movies, I woke up with an aching head and I was so dizzy that I threw up, spraying puke all over my lap. My guests ignored me, apparently not even noticing the putrid scent of the puke. There were three of them. They were all armed. I realize that there's probably no way I can type this without coming across as at least a little bit racist, so I'll just come right out and say it: two of them were young black guys, and the third looked Hispanic. None of them seemed very friendly. They all sat on the bed, waiting for Crystal to show up. Eventually, the door opened, and in she stepped, a smile on her lips. As soon as she saw our guests, that smiled melted away, and she immediately took a step back. All three of the dealers were already aiming at her by then, and for a moment, she froze. The moment passed quickly. Before I could even blink, she was running. Two of the dealers-- the Hispanic guy and one of the others-- chased after her. The third one stayed with me. "Your girlfriend's not very smart," he told me. "First the whore starts dealing in our spots, then she tries to run." He pointed his gun at my head. "That pill of hers. Where does she make it?" I stared at him blankly, and realization dawned. That bitch. That STUPID BITCH! You're one to talk, pill popper. Suddenly, a great blackness fell over me, and I saw an empty face, pale and yet somehow dark, just inches away from my eyes. Tentacles oozed out of the blackness and wrapped around the dealer, twisting the gun from his hand, wrapping around his throat and chocking off his scream. One tentacle lashed out, slicing through his stomach like a blade, spilling his intestines out onto the floor. And then the Slender Man turned his attention to me. I tried to move. The best I could do was scoot the chair a bit away, just as a tentacle flew at me. It sliced the rope from my legs, and managed to leave a a long but shallow gash across my skin, and I immediately took advantage of this sudden freedom, standing and running for the door, ignoring the stinging in my leg. Slender Man attacked again, and the chair, my arms still tied to it, exploded. Splinters rained everywhere, and I was knocked flat on my face, my back covered in cuts and slashes from those tentacles. I scrambled away, half crawling half running out of the motel room. I didn't look back to see if Slender Man was following me. I ran out onto the street just in time to see Crystal pinned against a car with the dealers beating the shit out of her. I hesitated for a moment, and ran toward her. One of the dealer's heads exploded, his brains splattering all over the asphalt of the parking lot. I looked up. Gas Mask was standing on the roof of the motel, a rifle in his hands. He took aim again, and I ran. This has become a real clusterfuck. Next thing you know, he's getting attacked by the Rake and all those haunted pokemon cartridges. Crystal managed to push the remaining dealer-- one of the black guys-- away from her and ran for the car. He opened fire on us, but we both ducked behind Crystal's car in time to avoid the bullets. Some guy was lying on the pavement nearby, in a hoodie with one of those Operator symbols on its back. He was bleeding pretty badly. I'm not sure if he was still alive or not. We heard the rifle go off again, and the dealer's barrage stopped. "Get in the car!" Crystal shouted. "NOW!" "It's a lion!" I complied, and we scrambled in, but not before Gas Mask got in one more shot, blowing a nasty hole through Crystal's right leg. The bullet hit on the lower half, in the fat behind the bone. Not sure what the technical name for that is. I pushed her into the passenger's seat, pulled the keys from her pocket, got the hell away from there. I looked back with the rearview mirror to Slender Man behind us, standing in the middle of the parking lot, turning to look at Gas Mask on the roof. Gas Mask seemed almost about to fire at him, but then he just dropped the rifle and seemed to almost burn away, vanishing in a puff of ash and embers. Crystal poured whiskey on her wound and had me bandage it up. I'm not sure if that's the proper way to treat a gunshot wound, but at the moment I was too angry to object. "What the hell were you thinking!?" I shouted. "Those pills! Those pills!? What the fuck made you decide to sell them!?" All she said was "Had to... make money... somehow" before she fell into unconsciousness. © Truth Hey. So, Joey told you all then. I haven't been flushing the pills down the toilet. I've been selling them. I know. I know. It was stupid of me. It was irresponsible... but do you have any idea how hard it is to just survive like this? I haven't been home in seven years. I've been running from a monster that can raise the fucking dead for seven years. Any money I had with me in the beginning ran out a long time ago. Seven years ago, I never would have imagined that I'd be reduced to this. I've sold crack, I've stolen, I've prostituted myself... All so I can just make a bit of money. Enough for gas and food and rooms... When those pills started showing up, I realized that they were a goldmine. I had a full bottle for every hotel or motel we checked into, the high they give is a state of perfect peace, and they hook you with only one dose, but the withdrawal is over with within a week. It's the kind of drug I could easily make some money off. This is such a stupid, unnecessary plot twist. THE MYSTERY GIRL IS A DRUG DEALER! THOSE EVIL PILLS WERE SOLD BY HER! THIS IS HOW YOU DO DRAMA RIGHT? In the end, it all came back to bite me in the ass. So now I'm sitting in some cheap-ass motel room with an amateur bandage wrapped around my leg-- a leg that's turning black and growing number with each passing hour. I can't go to a hospital. I'll get deported. They might even connect me with everything I've done over the years. On the bright side, I've had lots of time to think. After everything that's happened, things are finally starting to make sense. We were going to die, but both the Slender Man and the Archangel intervened. Why? It's obvious: they didn't want us dead. At least, not yet. Then why did the gas mask guy shoot you? Why are they even attacking you? This is really the reason I'm on Joey's account right now. He asked me to type this. The story I told him: back in California, I was driving down a road when a hooded man in a gas mask suddenly leaped onto my windshield. He started banging his fist against the glass, and I slammed on the breaks, sending him tumbling off. Then I floored it, and ran right over him. About five minutes later, I heard pounding on the car's roof. I slammed my breaks again, and once again Gas Mask tumbled off my vehicle. When I got to LA, I stopped to inspect the damage. There was a message scratched into the paint: "you have been chosen." There was also a scrap of paper that had been duct taped there. This blog's URL was written on it. That's how I found Joey's blog. The Archangel led me here. Oh My FUCKING GOD He honestly fucking scratched the URL of a blog by some ordinary shmuck on the roof of this woman's car just to get them together? That is too fucking stupid for words. 

That is so fucking contrived that literally anything would have been a more efficient way of getting the message across, and why did this Joey asshole even get picked by the Archangel in the first place? He's about as interesting as a Mormon's sex life! What's so special about him? 

Also, why is Joey getting holy about drug use? The idiot bumbled into a hotel room and slammed the pills he found. When Joey was high, he ranted about how "we are all pieces." I understand now. Archangel and Slender Man are playing some sort of Grand Game against each other, and me and Joey are the pieces on their game board. We don't know the rules. We can't know the rules. No human can ever sit in the player's seat. We are all pieces. Since this all began-- probably sooner than that-- we've been dancing to their tune. ...Judging by my leg, I won't be dancing much longer. That's a stupid metaphor, too. ~Crystal Companions Crystal's leg is getting worse. It stinks to high heaven, and the skin has become black and red and even a bit green. Every time even a little bit of pressure is applied to it, I can see Crystal writhing in pain. THE TERM IS GANGRENE YOU STUPID FUCK Part of me wants to leave her. Let her suffer for what she did. But I can't. I just can't. We're all we have left. Things That Go Bump in the Night Last night I woke up just in time to see... something... scurry out of the window. Looked like some kind of ape. With claws. I checked Crystal and she was fine. Who the fuck is after him now? The infamous Claw Monkey of Tennesee? Been driving all day. I don't even know what state I'm in right now. All I know is that I'm tired and I should probably find some work soon, because our money pool is just about dried up. Crystal's been delirious all day. At one point she started screaming from something she saw on the side of the road. I hope she'll be OK. Yeah, she's going to be fine with that fucking rotting leg. Alone Crystal's dead. Worked all day. Came back to the motel to find her corpse laying on her bed. Her blood all over the walls. Gas Mask standing over her, holding a god damn baseball bat. Her blood still dripped from it. He came at me, and then tendrils of blackness oozed out from the empty air and enveloped him. I saw the empty face in the blackness, looking at me. And I looked beyond it and saw his face smiling. Hello there, pointless drama out of nowhere. And then I was alone save for the corpse. Crystal. She's dead. Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead daed dae dead dead dead dead adedc REPEATING ONE WORD OVER AND OVER DOES NOT MAKE FOR GOOD READING YOU FUCKING CONGENITAL ACCIDENT Alright Archangel. I guess you know where I'm headed. When find a hotel, you'll know where it is. Where I am. I'm waiting for you you son of a bitch. Come and get me. Watch out, we got Billy Badass up in here. Afterlife In the end, it wasn't Gas Mask who came for me. No, Archangel chose a more fitting form. As I sat in my motel room, Crystal materialized before me, and leaped at me, wrapping her fingers around my neck. I looked up into her face. Her expression was blank, but her eyes were not. Her eyes were full of terror and sorrow and pain. And that's when I realized the truth. I had been keeping a knife with me. I buried it in her stomach, and pushed her corpse off me. Then I ran. I just hopped into my car and drove. There is no escape from the Archangel. I understand that now. To become its slave is the ultimate fate of all humans. The Archangel isn't just some monster. The Archangel is the afterlife, and it waits for us all. What.... so all that happens after we die is that some asshole uses our body for some stupid reason? And I thought The Tommyknockers had a stupid plot. But... maybe there is a way out. Last time. When Gas Mask killed Crystal. Slender Man stopped him from killing me. Why? He saved me. saved me saved me saved me saved me a saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved l me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved o me saved me saved me saved n me saved me e saved me saved me n saved me saved me saved me saved me o saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved m me saved me saved me saved me o saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved r me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me e saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me saved me FUCK YOU. THAT IS NOT SCARY, THAT IS A COMPLETE WASTE OF WORDS YOU STUPID, STUPID LITTLE WANNABE SHITGOBBLER Rebirth Last night, I went home. Master showed me the way. He guided me through a long black path, covered in leaves. I emerged from the blackness, and I was in my old house. Master had given me a knife, and I used it well. Mother, father, sister, brother. Throats slit, everyone. Never woke up. It's for the best. Master's power will prevent them from passing on. They will never become its slaves. They will simply cease. I have shed my old life. I have found a purpose. Master has given me one. And with His voice always buzzing in my head, I shall never be alone again. Happy Easter. -STEWARD WHY IS THIS ARCHANGEL ASSHOLE KILLING PEOPLE? WHAT IS HE TRYING TO ACCOMPLISH? WHAT PURPOSE DID SLENDERMAN SERVE IN THIS FUCKING STORY OTHER THAN TO SERVE AS FAN SERVICE AND PULL A DEUS EX MACHINA? WHERE DID THE FUCKING PILLS COME FROM? WHY WAS THIS EVEN WRITTEN TO BEGIN WITH? A New Chapter One chapter of my life has ended, but a new one begins hidden in the trees. -STEWARD Well that sucked.

This story had no substance, literally none. No internal logic, no depth, no interesting characters. It’s cargo cult storytelling at its most braindead.

[skeletripe]

The Fear Mythos Sucks: Exhibit 1

The Fear Mythos is a project originating from TV Tropes that is an attempt to make a Lovecraft-style horror mythos. Because the average TV Tropes user has no concept of pacing, atmosphere, theme, tone, or dialogue; the result is a stupid, cliched mess with not one iota of original or interesting thought or storytelling. Despite the total lack of credibility outside of the incestuous community, they proceeded to spam the series on TV Tropes, set up a wikia, and other stupid fandom stuff for a mythos that nobody really was talking about in order to  call attention to it, kind of like astroturfing but pathetic.

Eccentrically Bored is one of the first stories. It’s told in blog form like some of the early Slenderman stories, unlike those stories, this is dull and stupid and poorly written.

New Blog Ahoy! 'Sup bitches? Name's Joey Steward. I can already tell this guy will be as likable as a case of armadillo leprosy. So, I was just laying around, doing nothing, and realized that life is really damn boring. So true maaaaannnnnn So, in an attempt to spice up my boring, boring life, I decided to start a blog, so I can post about my life and have a good laugh. I'm not sure how sharing my boring life with other people will help spice up my own life, but hey. A lot of people are bloggers, so there's got to be something to it, right? Maybe it'll give me some kind of meaning or something. I don't know. Look, if you're going to tell a story in blog or diary form, at least make your character's thoughts and words interesting. The only characterization this guy has so far is "vapid and bored." Jonathan Harker was an interesting protagonist even though he wasn’t as important in the overall story because he was interesting and did interesting things. Anyway, I hope to post some more stuff this week, and tell you all about my AWESOME ADVENTURES! Till then, Joey out. OH MAN, ARE YOU FEELING THE EXCITEMENT? This is why Troper literature sucks, it’s simultaneously self aware and braindead. The Fear Mythos uses common horror tropes and archetypes without any understanding of them or why they’re frightening. Valentine's Day. Blegh.

DYING ALONE! 

Traditionally, single people are supposed to bitch and moan about being alone when Valentine's Day comes around. I'm going to refrain from doing that. I do, however, reserve the right to bitch and moan about the ubiquitous presence of the color pink. I really hate that color. It is a terrible color. This story must ascribe to the Eli Roth school of character development. Have him blither about shit nobody cares about for twenty minutes so we look forward to him getting machete'd by the killer. Hating the color pink is not a character trait. Mr. Steward is a skeleton of a character. He has just the barest hint of a personality and nothing fleshing him out. 

The diary format is best used to add amtosphere by giving you a very intimate look into the private life of the characters, Johnathan Harker’s diary showed him at his most vulnerable, spending the night in an isolated castle with only the fearsome Count Dracula. House of Leaves followed several people as they were swept up in the downward spiral of madness catalyzed by Zampano’s manuscript. Joey Steward’s blog is a load of fucking nothing. Anyway, posting this from my laptop at school, which I got for Christmas (the laptop, not the school). My resolution just randomly changed so that everything on the screen was JUMBO SIZED and then it changed back to normal a few seconds later. Now that is what I call really effin' weird. This had better pick up soon, because snail foreplay is more exciting than this. I'll be at work tomorrow, so don't expect much. Seeya! Fuck you. Heard a noise So I heard a noise outside, looked out my window, and didn't see anything. A few minutes later, I heard it again, like a scratching sound, and checked outside. Nothing. And then I heard it again, and went outside, and it was really cold and some dog was out in the front yard. It saw me, barked and then ran off. I went back inside and was bothered by no more noises. RIVETING! Seriously, this writing is fucking inexcusable. It’s dry, dull and completely charmless. It doesn’t have the color of any sort of vernacular, it doesn’t describe anything in any sort of acceptable detail. It reads like a rough plot outline someone who bang out to get the actual story started. That's Messed Up So check this article from the Virginian Pilot. Now that is some messed up shit right there. For those of you too lazy to check, basically they found a teenage girl washed up on the beach, dead. But she wasn't drowned. The body was covered in bruises and a lot of her bones were broken. The working theory is that she was beaten to death and dumped in the ocean. The mafia claims yet another victim. What the hell is wrong with people that they'd do something like that? I'm sorry, but that's just sick. You know what else is sick? Writing dull horror stories! This bit paints Joey Steward as an imbecile. The passage is written in the tone you’d expect from a Facebook comment. This shows more of the vacuous mindset this story came from, this story is told through the internet and the worst ‘what the hell’ form of murder is a beating followed by disposing of the body in the river.That’s pedestrian for a mob hit and the average person hears of worse shit happening every day. 

The description of the murder is similarly colorless and banal. Bruises and nothing else. Blunt force trauma can manifest in a lot of horrific ways and this idiot goes with the least interesting thing. Hotline Miami was disturbing because when you struck a mobster with a blunt weapon, their bones were broken in gruesome ways, arms being bent backwards, heads being caved in, and that game was in a low-res art style and it still had detail to it. A competent writer would have added some sort of detail to get the mind going like “They could see from the how badly the rib-cage was broken because one side of her chest had caved in. “ “He face was a swollen, twisted mass and they needed dental records to ID her.”  In other news, I have to go get ready for school. Seeya. Work Work sucks, but since I work at a construction site, it's also pretty cool. ...OK, sorry, that didn't make much sense. This is bullshit. A real blog would not be this dull. I’ve read real blogs, they’re full of events, funny things people said, memories of loved ones, venting about a frustrating day at work. Joey Steward has literally not talked about anything interesting. He mentions the start of something interesting but it never follows up. Anyway, what I mean to say is, expect some pics of the jobsite soon. Fucking die in an industrial accident you vapid shit. Weekend! Oh thank God for the Weekend! I'm so tired from work and school and shit. By the way, you know that girl I mentioned before? The one who washed up on the beach? They figured out who she was apparently. Turns out the body didn't drift here from some place far away-- she was a local. So now I have to deal with the fact that there may be a killer nearby? Great. Now we have someone to root for. Again, this could have been interesting but it’s so  brief and artless and dull that it doesn’t even register as bad writing. This is barely a story. Another One So, it seems there's been another death like that girl from before, the one that washed up on the beach. This new body was some kid that was dumped near where they found the girl. Same injuries as she had, too. The police suspect a serial killer. You don't say! I would have thought they'd suspect a ballet dancer! That's... pretty freaky. I mean, on some level, a part of me is kind of interested, like "Oh, hey, a real life serial killer", but on the other hand... a real life serial killer. Like watch your back and be very careful. I'm glad I don't live that close to the beach. These entries follow several days, several days and fucking nothing has happened yet. Joey Steward might as well have spent several days in a bomb shelter masturbating to paint swatches for all it did in the narrative.

Allergies... Ugh. I woke up today with a huge headache, a stuffy nose, and a bad cough. The cough and headache have since gone away, but the stuffiness remains. Must be allergy season, creeping up on me. Seems kind of early this year, no? You know it's bad when the first sign of evil is a fucking cold. Jonathan Harker’s first clue that shit was not right was when Dracula owned no mirrors and climbed out the window and down the castle wall like a fucking lizard. Dracula was written a century ago and it so completely eclipses the Fear Mythos I might as well be comparing Black Sabbath to the Insane Clown Posse.

I also keep flipping my phone open and looking at that glitched up picture I mentioned last post. For some reason, I like it. I guess the glitches made it look neat? I don't know. Maybe I'll post it to this blog later. ...And my headache's coming back. I need to go lie down for a while. Spoiler warning: The headache is caused by Slenderman. You knew this would be Slenderman because this story is so predictable and unoriginal you know exactly what’s going to happen before reading any of it.  The Glitched Picture Can't sleep. Head is throbbing too much. I keep just looking at this picture. The camera screwed it up really badly, but I feel like there's still something there. I don't know. I can't really explain it. I just feel drawn to this picture somehow. Anyway, here it is: I need to go take some Nyquil or something. I'm seriously tired, but my head just refuses to let me sleep. And this damn picture, staring at it in the dark is really straining my eyes. Slenderman stories are like those 'Where's Waldo?' pictures. The picture itself is nothing interesting. Just a stupid Slenderman photoshop. Why does this exist? This story does nothing original, it does nothing well, it does nothing interesting. As awful as The Room was, it was an entertaining, interesting awful. A Little Self Reflection My head's cleared up, though I've still got the sinus issues. Anyway, some of you... five... follower... people may be wondering why I never mention anything about going out with friends or anything like that. Well, I guess it's that I just don't make friends easily. I don't know why. I just don't really connect or click or whatever with people. You know, there have been stories that made a solitary, lonely character interesting, like The Life Of Oscar Wao. This is not one of them. To make a lonely or solitary character interesting you have to develop them past their solitude. Oscar Wao was a lonely romantic whose turbulent life and family history drove him to comic books and this lead him to having a warped view of the world but also a strong sense of justice. Robert Hamburger from the Realultimatepower is a tragicomic figure who uses ninjas as a means of escape. Joey Steward is just a vapid dipshit. Oh, I had friends in high school, but then we graduated, and colleges and shit... they all moved away to attend schools out of state, and I stayed here, in boring old Virginia. Yeah, I admit it. I get pretty lonely sometimes. Maybe that's why I decided to start this blog. Gives me something to do to take my mind off things. My life is incredibly boring and my existence incredibly lonely. But maybe, just maybe, this blog can give me some sort of purpose. Well, I guess "purpose" is the word I'm looking for. I don't know. It's kind of hard to put in words. So basically I'm a socially retarded 19 year old virgin with a blog. How compelling right? Ha. Humor makes it easier to live with myself. Slenderman needs to hurry the fuck up, this is getting seriously pitiful. Um. Gas Masks? Just looked out the window and saw some guy in a hoodie out in the street. The weird thing is that his hood was up and he was wearing a gas mask. No friggin clue why. It freaked me out at first, because it looked like he was staring at my window, but then he just turned and kept walking down the road. I must be getting paranoid. With that serial killer on the loose, and my lack of any good sleep recently, I'm jumping at everything. Still though: why a gas mask? Because tropes.That is the real reason. The idiot writing this knew that bad guys in gas masks was a trope and put it in because its a trope. They did not think about why gas masks are creepy looking or what the imagery brings up. Absolutely no thought was put into this fucking thing. What. The. Fuck. I got home from work, checked my email, and someone sent me a link to this video: Here's the video. Look at how cliche it is! Whoever did this, it's not funny. Go fuck yourself. You now have the world's lamest stalker. Paranoia? Today is Ash Wednesday, and my mom insisted that I meet her at church to get ashes on my forehead. So after mass, I drove home, and that's when my head started throbbing again. This was different from the last few times though. The pain was more intense, and I had trouble concentrating. I was seriously afraid that I would black out at any moment and get into a crash. Anyway, there's this playground near my house, and I was I was passing it-- going real slow and careful-- I noticed a weird man there. He was wearing a business suit, and he was just standing there. Children were running all around him, but he seemed completely unfazed. I couldn't get a good look at his face, but I swear to God he was watching my car. Using Slenderman is so lazy. It's like how the bad Silent Hill games shoehorn Pyramid Head into everything. OG Slenderman was scary because he appeared near children and capitalized on the childhood fear of adults and the adult fear of child predators. Slenderman’s very appearance was specifically meant to remind you of how strange men used to scare you as a kid. He was the stranger at the edge of town your mother warned you about. He’s only here because he got popular and like all popular things on the internet, stupid people ruined it. The headache was starting to let up when I got home, but for some reason that guy in the suit had me terrified. I called up the police, and I tried to tell them everything. The guy in the suit, that fucked up video, even the Gas Mask dude. I told them I was being followed, but I'm not sure if they actually believed me. Fucking cops. Isn't it their job to look into stuff like this? How could they just brush me off like that? I think it's because they're working on catching the serial killer you mentioned earlier you ungrateful shit. What is the cops going to focus their resources on? A person who killed people or a stalker one asshole is complaining about? Anyway, about an hour later, these two government types show up at my house. Introduced themselves as being part of some weird organization with a name I can't remember. SMC? MSM? ...SnM? I don't know. They asked me a few questions about the suit and the video and Gas Mask. I answered as best I could, and offered to show them the video, but they just shook their heads and told me they wouldn't see what I saw. The fuck does that mean? My name is right there in the video! Oh fucking hell, this story is bringing the men in black into it. They just left, and my parents are concerned. They offered to find me a psychiatrist, since those agents said I may be suffering from paranoia. Maybe I am just paranoid. Ever since those murders started, I've been jumping at everything. Actually, come to think of it, it's only been since the headaches started... This story is so vapid and artless it’s frustrating to read. It’s like anti-thought. Feeling Fine I visited a shrink today. Told him everything. He didn't believe me, though. No one ever believes me. Showed him the video. He didn't see my name. No one sees my name. He gave me pills. Said they would help. I took them. They help. No one ever gives me things anymore. No one wants to be around me. I don't think I understand people very well. I make them scared and uncomfortable, or maybe they make me scared and uncomfortable, so we never get along. These aren't the words of someone on medication. These are the words of a man who's been lobotomized. All my friends left and went away so no one ever wanst to be my friend anymore. That makes me sad. I don't like to be sad. I like to be happy. Do you like to be sad? The pills keep the sad away. I like the pills. This is only how fucking idiots think anti-psychotics work. I don't think I care anymore. I don't care that I don't have any friends. Sometimes when I'm lying in my bed I hug a pillow and pretend I'm hugging someone. I never hug people. I don't get along with people very well. But I don't care anymore. This is just sad. I don't care that I'm alone. I don't care that even my family thinks I'm weird. I don't care that theres been another murder. I don't care that people think I'm crazy. I don't care that I have to take these pills. I don't care that an empty face is in the window. I don't care about the video. I don't care that Hes watching me. I don't care. I feel fine. This really isn't off to a good start. The Slender Man Whatever it was the doctor gave me, it really messed me up. I don't even remember typing out that post last night. But there's something in it that really bugs me. What is the empty face? I've been doing some research. Went to Google, looked for men in suits, stalking, "empty face", stuff like that. Anyway, I came across another stuff about a so called "Slender Man", some kind of creature that looks like a man in a business suit, but with no face, who stalks people, drives them mad, tears out their intestines... Inspires thousands of mediocre creepypastas. It all sounds like a bad horror story, It is. but I'm not so sure. Is that what's happening to me? That video mentioned a "Großmann"-- "Tall Man", along with an image of what these blogs and articles refer to as an "operator symbol"; His symbol. As crazy as it sounds, I think it's real. And whatever the Slender Man is, it's following me. One thing I don't understand: what is the Archangel? I remember one of the blogs I found where the Slender Man was referred to as "the angel of death"-- are they the same thing? Is it just another name? Too many questions. Not enough answers. I'm scared. I need to take my medicine.

Take the kind that tastes like bitter almond. No Worries Gas Mask outside again. I think he's the killer. Killed three people. Beat them to death. Left their bodies at the beach. Splash! He's watching my window. Think he's watching me. Been standing there for fifteen minutes. Just watching. But I'm not worried. Not as long as I take my medicine. What kind of medicine makes you that passive? That's not medication, that's fucking removing the entire frontal lobe. The World in Flames He was outside again. The Slender Man. I don't know why I did it, maybe my mind was still under the pills' influence, but when I saw Him standing out there, I went outside. I walked right toward Him and stopped about a meter or two away from Him. And I asked Him a simple question: "What do you want?" When in a horror story, make sure you talk to the monster, that always works. Of course, He didn't say anything. I don't know if I expected Him too, but He moved. He lifted His arm, and I just stood there and watched as His hand melted away, revealing tendrils of complete blackness crawling forth from His body. They stretched out toward me, and their tips settled on my forehead. They were cold to the touch, and my skin felt stiff wherever they made contact, and suddenly I wasn't standing in my front yard anymore. And also make sure to let it touch you. Seriously, this asshole has the survival instinct of a donut. I was in a great city, under a black sky. All around me, buildings crumbled and fell as flames engulfed them. Ash fell from the sky, covering everything the flames did not. Before my eyes, Gas Mask floated down from the heavens to stand before me, and I swear he was smiling under that mask. I looked up to see where he had come from, and I saw nothing. Oh, I felt something. I felt eyes watching me. I felt wings flapping in the skies. I felt a presence, concentrated in the world above, but at the same time lingering all around me. I looked up into that great empty void, and a single thought filled my mind: "Enemy." This is like a really lame acid trip. It’s all imagery supposed to be creepy with no substance behind it. And then I was lying in my bed, as if I had awoken from some dream. I sat up, and I looked out my window, just in time to see Slender Man fade away into the night. And standing in front of His retreating form, I saw myself. My body crumpled when His tendrils left my skin, and I seemed to just sink into the grass below. Attacked I had a night class today, and the instructor let us out early. My car was in a parking garage on the other side of campus, so it was sort of a long walk. Anyway, after a few minutes of walking, I realized that someone had been walking behind me since I left class. Whoever it was, they were keeping their distance though, and let's face it, with everything that's happened, I could just be jumpy, so I ignored my mysterious follower. This guy really has no concept of self preservation. Big mistake. As I was opening my car door, she just ran up behind me, grabbed me by the hair, and slammed my head against the car door. I was disoriented, so I wasn't really able to fight back as she threw me to the ground and started kicking me in the ribs. YOU CAME TO THE WRONG NEIGHBORHOOD MOTHERFUCKER I managed to get my wits back around the time the knife came out. The girl stabbed down at me, and managed to get some skin off my shoulder, but I was able to roll away in time to avoid any serious damage. She kcked at me again. Got me right in the chest. Damn that hurt. But I was able to kick at her knees and scramble to my feet. She fell when I kicked her, and I managed to get into my car and get the fuck out of there. It wasn't until I got home that I realized that I recognized her. Her face had been all over the news just a few weeks ago. She was the first victim. They found her body on the beach. I was attacked by a dead girl. I was attacked by a fucking dead girl. ... That is so fucking stupid. Why did the dead girl attack him? What reason is there? If you want this to be scary, there needs to be some sort of set-up. Lake Mungo had an instance of a doppelganger and it made sense because the first half was about a grieving family trying to contact a ghost of their dead girl. Calm I'm calm now. Dead people attack. Zombies. Zombies moan and groan and tear the flesh off with their teeth. No zombies here though. Alone. Always alone. I dont know who you are C. I don't need byou. Go away. Medicine protects me. NOBODY TALKS LIKE THIS. Pills Are Lies Yesterday, I went to see that psychiatrist again. I thanked him for the pills he gave me, told them they were a big help. He just looked at me with this confused, concerned look on his face and said: "I never gave you any pills." OH SHIT SON When I got home I flushed all the pills down the toilet. Then I lay in bed, trying to push everything out of my mind. It wasn't easy. The Slender Man was outside my window again. Watching me. My hands are shaking, and I keep seeing things. I think I'm going into withdrawal. If he was smart, he would have asked to see a prescription before taking any damn pills from anyone. That’s how shit this story is, it requires its main character to be an idiot to work.

Who is this irresistible creature who has an insatiable love for the dead? LIVING DEAD GIRL It is never a good sign when someone quotes a Rob Zombie song. Dreams and Cats Last night I dreamed that I was in a long hallway, and the walls were made of light and shadow, and as I walked I got less and less tired, and then I ran and I was suddenly in a field, and Slender Man and Gas Mask were both there, on opposite sides of the field, watching me. ALL DREAMS ARE MADE UP OF OBVIOUS SYMBOLISM When I woke up, there was a white cat looking into my face. I don't own any pets. The cat climbed up onto my bed, and then up to ceiling, and I saw that its body was incredibly long. It reached the ceiling and kept twisting and circling around like a snake. I never saw its hind legs. Oh fuck, Longcat's in on this too? I blinked, and the cat was gone. I'm starting to regret getting rid of those pills. Return of the Headaches I think I found what I miss the most about the pills: I never had any headaches when I took them. Now my head is throbbibg again and I know-- I just know- that he is outside my windomw again. nhe Slender MaN. Oh God myn hands won't stiop shaking. My head hurts so muych and my hands justy keep shaking. Will I ever get over this? IO just want this yo enmd. I want thiings to go bacvk tyo normal. Todayu I byumped intpo the wall becausr I thoughty there waAS and entranceway therew. I see whats not thertre, and I don't ser what ISSDS therwe.... I wanat my medicine. Dear Joey Steward, how do you type with boxing gloves on? Notes I got home tooday and I found two noets waitiung for me. Peter Chimera has hijacked this story. The first was in the mailbox. If you've been reading the commnets, then you know someone called "C" has been commenting on this blog. Well, he left me a message. He wants to meet in person. C, I understannd if you mean well, but I really am not in a modd to meet someone at the momment. The second note, well... Jehova's Witnesses are getting creative. This was on my bedrtoom door. C? Did you leave this? Stay the fuck away from me. Just STAY THE FUICK AWAY FROM ME! I'm sure this is how a lot of romantic comedies start. The Archangel I just got home from my weekly Psychiatrist visit. He gave me some medicine, different kind than last, but I'm not going to take it. Best be careful-- I'm just now beginning to calm down after that last pill fiasco. Anyway, I stumbled across a blog called brighter than a spoon, and as I read it, something clicked in my head. "There's more out there than just Slender Man"... That's another thing with this Fear Mythos, it loves to cross-reference stories. Because everyone loves a story where you have to read other stories to know what's going on. It’s so pathetically self referential and up its own ass that it’s like a project run by Luka Magnotta and Timecube Guy. What if I've been looking at this the wrong way? What if "Archangel" isn't just another name for Slender Man? What if the Archangel is something completely different? It would certainly make sense. Hell, it would explain a lot. But I can't find any information on it, besides Biblical angels, and somehow I doubt they're the same thing. Please, if anyone knows anything about this Archangel, tell me. Crystal's Story I met C today. Her name is Crystal. She's 26 years old. Seven years older than me. We met at a library at 5pm, about three and a half hours ago. She's a really pale woman, with dark, sunken-in eyes and long, tangled, unevenly cut hair. She was wearing a bunch of old clothes, and I think I saw some crust in the fabric. I don't want to know how long it's been since she washed them. Yep, sounds like a troper. We sat down at a table in the back of the library. Obviously, I can't remember the exact words of our conversation, but I'll try my best to get this accurate as possible: "So," I said, as we sat down. "You're C?" "'Crystal' will do," she told me. "I was in a library in Los Angeles when I found your blog." "They have libraries in Los Angeles?" She ignored my little attempt at a joke. "I don't know what I was looking for exactly. I guess I was trying to find some evidence of it's existence... Anyway, I somehow found your blog, and I saw the Twin Triangles on one of your pictures--" I interrupted her there. "You saw the what?" Yeah, when did shapes enter into this three-ring shit circus? "The Twin Triangles. That's what I call it anyway. It's its symbol-- two triangles, one upside down, overlapping each other. I don't know if there's some sort of official name, but the symbol shows up wherever it does. Those pictures you posted of that construction site... It was scratched into a wall. That's how I knew the Archangel was targeting you." We were silent for a moment, and then I asked: "What is the Archangel?" She shook her head. "I don't know, exactly. Some sort of... thing. I guess the best way to explain it would be to explain how I met it." She hesitated. "I was born and raised in Montreal. My family had me, my mom, my dad, and my older brother David. Anyway, about six years ago my brother was killed in a car accident." She hesitated again. "He was dead... I helped clean out his room, I saw them put the coffin in the ground... but he was there too. At the funeral. The cemetery. I saw him just standing there behind a tree, watching." OOoOOOooooOOO He STANDS BEHIND THINGS, spooky! There was a long pause after that. I wanted to say something, but I couldn't think of what. Thankfully, she continued before anything came to mind: "I kept seeing him, throughout the next few weeks. Standing outside my window. Walking across the street. I saw him in the mall once. He was following me. I thought I was going crazy... I never told anyone, though. Just kept it to myself. Then one night, I was at a party. I was walking back to my car, drunk out of my mind... and he was there in the passenger seat. Nearly shocked me into sobriety. Then he attacked me." It was at this point that I was reminded of my own encounter with one of the recently departed. So the Archangel possesses dead bodies to attack its victims. It was scarier when The Thing did it. Because The Thing made sense as a concept. "I don't remember much of that night," Crystal continued. "Most of its blur. Somehow I managed to get away. I guess I must gone sober at some point, since I managed to get home without wrecking. That's when I found the first note. It was written in my brother's handwriting. Had the Twin Triangles drawn on it, and said something about how I should embrace the Archangel. No capital letters either. I went to my room, locked the door and windows and curled up in my bed. I don't think I slept at all that night. It was like that for the next few weeks. Notes left at my door, my brother... and I started seeing other people too-- people I knew who had died. My grandma... My uncle... I never saw them together-- I don't think the Archangel can use more one body at a time." I interrupted her again here. "What what In the butt?" "That's what it does, or at least that's what I think it does. The Archangel... I don't think it has a physical body, so it needs to use the dead to interact with the world. Anyway, after a few more weeks of this, I just withdrew all my money from the bank, quit my job, left a few messages for the people who knew me, and ran. I managed to sneak across the border, down to the States, and I've been running ever since, taking up whatever jobs are available to me to keep the cash flowing. But the Archangel's never been far behind, so I've had to keep moving." She leaned back, and I realized for the first time that there were tears in her eyes, and she had been struggling not to cry since she'd started this story. "I don't know why it's after me, and I don't know why it's after you, and I don't know anything about a Slender Man, either. But, Joey, listen to me: you have to run. This thing won't just let you go. If you stay here, you'll die, and that thing will take your body and start parading around with it. You can come with me if you want-- just don't stay here." ...I don't feel like posting the rest of what happened. I'm sorry, guys, but there's a lot I need to think about. Why is the Archangel even doing this? I know it's supposed to be a mysterious eldritch horror, but there's a big difference between mysterious and attacking people for no damn reason. hello you have chosen joey steward to reject us we are unhappy run along find the STRANGER he can not protect you embrace the archangel This is the shittiest slam poem ever. Decision I woke up today to find that somewhat threatening post on my blog. I'd love to say my account was hacked. I'd love to say that someone had gotten a hold of my password. But I saw this. Gas Mask. Well, Archangel I guess. He was in my room last night. He used my computer to post that message. Crystal is right. It's not safe here. I've decided to leave with her. And so our bland hero is on the run. I hope he dies.

[skeletripe]

Five Reasons why Squidward’s Suicide is Fish Poop

1. It’s a lost episode pasta. This thing was shat out when Lost Episode pastas were popular. In that brief time, millions of other shit like it were posted and reposted. Squidward’s Suicide is wholly unoriginal. It does nothing interesting or new.If you’ve read Suicide Mouse, you know every note of the story.

2. It makes no sense. Ignoring the premise, why is an intern of all people allowed in a test screening for a Triple-A nickelodeon show? His role in the story should have been ‘gets coffee for the people who matter in the studio’. It would have made more sense if he was an animator. Also, why did they continue watching after the first dead kid pic? Any person with a functioning brainsteam would have killed the projector and called the cops. It’s blatantly contrived to get the rest of the episode described despite it not making any damn sense.

3. It has terrible writing. On a purely technical level, this story sucks fish eggs. Tense problems are everywhere. There’s no tension or buildup,nothing even remotely startling. It’s just a bunch of ‘disturbing’ imagery in sequence with nothing holding it together.

4. “HYPER REALISTIC” This pasta has the king of all cop-outs. Hyper-realistic anything is a kiss of death to the writer’s credibility. There is no effort to actually making the disturbing imagery work, it’s just bleeding eyes and hoping that the notion that the blood is realistic will make it scary. It even explicitly tells the reader to feel scared when the narrator goes on about which parts were scary. This is one of the first things you learn not to do in any writing class.

5. It’s dull. The language has no real character or flourish to it. There’s no personal touches or any really inventive or interesting language or descriptions. It’s so completely cliche that you could be forgiven for thinking it was written with a text generator.

If you like Squidward’s Suicide, you’re too easily entertained. If you think it’s a scary story, you’re wrong. If you think it’s a good story, then you’re an imbecile.

[skeletripe]

This one's called Quinine When countries of Europe started invading Africa to build colonies, one of their major obstacles was the disease malaria. However, the Europeans had a counter: a drug called Quinine. It would not cure, but would prevent malaria. I'm sure this is going to be scientifically plausible. A group of scientists in Manchester decided to test out the first few samples of this drug on some prisoners of war. So as long as the prisoners complied with the scientists, they were promised freedom when the test was over. And we hit a cliche in the second sentence. I expect nothing from creepypasta and I'm still disappointed. One of the doctors, Dr. Howard Brown, decided to keep an audio log of the event, one of the first times in history this had been done. Why he didn't just use the cheaper alternative of writing shit down has eluded most historians. Day 1: 10th October, ----, 11:43 PM This is Dr. Howard Brown. We are about to test the samples on the prisoners. Subject A received the daily dosage, Subject B got the weekly dosage, and Subject C the monthly dosage. We injected them with the malaria soon after they fell asleep. So far, they have not exhibited any side effects, save for slight hearing problems. However, these came few and far in between. We'll see what tomorrow brings. Spoiler: crazy murder happens. Staff Note: Colonel Arthur Radley was shot down by a guard today, while trying to free the prisoners. His death will not be honored by a funeral. He does not deserve one. Because a doctor can totally make that decision. Because this isn't a ridiculously cartoonishly evil action. Day 2: 11th October, ----, 3:24 PM Once again, nothing odd has happened. The subjects are eating and drinking normally, and going on with daily activities, or at least as much as one can do hauled in a small glass tank. However, Subject C began exhibiting strange behavior. He seems to occasionally experience spasms in his arm, as if he is a beast, cutting something with claws or nails. I will go talk to him. That's some awkward prose right there. Awkward like a Redditor talking to women. Day 3: 12th October, ----, 10: 28 AM I spoke to Subject C yesterday. He admitted having an odd dream, in which he watched from outside the glass tank (which was shattered, possibly by a thrown object from inside the tank) as a monster, shrouded in black, clawed Subjects A and B, and proceeded in eating their skin. Their skin. I asked him how the clawing was done by the monster. He showed me the same exact motion as he was doing yesterday. Upon asking him, I realized that he had not remembered the day's earlier spasms. What could this be? It could be bullshit. Quinine is a real-ass drug and the idiot writing this pretends its some magic super soldier serum mixed with PCP. Nobody's asking for total historical accuracy, but could you at least try to not demolish our suspension of disbelief? As if matters weren't odd enough, Subject B had intense night terrors at around 3:00 AM this morning. "No dad! Not the clown room!" Most of what he said was unintelligible, but I could make out a few "NO!"s and "Stay back!"s. Upon further imploring Subject C, he said that these words did come from Subject B during his dream. Could Subject B and C's dreams be somehow linked? See, this is another reason why Creepypasta sucks ass in general. Everything has to be crazy murderers. People simply dying or getting sick as a result of drug experimentation never happens in these stories. The Bhopal Incident was scary, the Tuskeegee Syphillis Trails were scary. This is just a hack writer trying to get cheap scares in the laziest way possible. And I can't even masturbate to this. Day 4: 13th October, ----, 6:54 PM Something is wrong. Upon entering the laboratory today, the other scientists and I found the corpse of one of the guards, skin and clothing removed, and cut into five pieces. Damn that's edgy. In addition, Subject C looked, to say the absolute least, different today. He seemed taller, and his skin was a light grey colour. When one looked close, they could see him exhibit a faint, but there, smoky black aura. Fucking why? Did the Quinine get tainted with monster juice? In addition, he did absolutely nothing today. He didn't sleep, didn't eat, didn't even move. He just sat in the corner, watching Subjects A and B. This seems to be becoming more and more like Subject C's dream. Let us hope it doesn't end the same way. Just a word of advice: Any attempt at building tension will fail if the reader can see what's coming a mile away. On the other hand, Subject A seems to be showing no adverse side effects. He is behaving just as a normal human being. Of course, he is being fed daily doses, so as to show how it would work in the battlefield. wow how very uninteresting. My granddad's funeral was more entertaining than this pasta and we had to stop dancing after an hour because the neighbors complained. Day 5: 14th October, ----, -:-- PM In a whisper* This is a final word of warning, should this lab ever be discovered. Should you find medicine in the cabinet labeled Quinine S: A.1-A.3, do NOT ingest anything from this container, at any cost. It will end at your, and all those around you, expense. Earlier today, Subject C did not look human. In fact, I doubt he was. He appeared to be a monster, shrouded in black, and exhibited huge claws. He stepped up from his chair, and approached the other two subjects. Subject A threw one of the chairs at the glass, and it shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces. It might have been an attempt to escape. I went downstairs to survey the damage. His escape attempt might have worked, had Subject C not sliced Subject A into five pieces. He approached Subject B next. He appeared to be paralyzed with fear. I couldn't blame him. The thing that was once Subject C was about 3 meters tall, and had an intense black aura pulsating off of him with every step. I took this chance to escape to the crawl space below the stairs. He hasn't found me yet—oh dear God. No. No! NO!! *from here, only a crackling sound is heard, and an alien sound grunting and making odd sounds, similar to that of eating.* After this experiment, Quinine S was never again created, and Quinine T was conceived. Upon testing, scientists found that these side effects would not happen if a monthly dose drug was not used. Therefore, Quinine T, now simply known as Quinine, only comes in daily and weekly doses. That is dumb as all fuck. All of the fuck. What was even in the Quinine to make the black monster thing happen? Why didn't they at least try it on lab rats or some shit first? Does the assmonkey who wrote this even know what Quinine is? It's a chemical derived from chinchona tree bark. You can't even justify this shit with artistic license because anyone who knows anything about medicine would roll their eyes so hard they'd go blind. It's like if someone wrote a creepypasta about how Pepto Bismol caused test subjects to rape people uncontrollably. I mean, my cousin found a bottle of Quinine in my uncle's medicine cabinet and drank the whole thing and the only thing that happened is that he got his stomach pumped. During World War I, the lab was rediscovered by Allied forces surveying damage. Upon entering, they found about 20 corpses, all in the same condition: Sliced into five pieces, with skin removed. In a small crawl space under the staircase, was a large audio recording device, with a recording on it by a Dr. Howard Brown. We can only assume the worst for his fate. So why did the dead people all get skinned and chopped into five people? Is there a reason? If you're going to write a story about a chemical or drug then you should at least try to explain the rules of what it does and why it causes such effects. The Thing was scary because we knew just enough about how it worked so that it seemed like a credible danger. This detail is like the rest of this creepypasta, nonsensical, hacky and pointless.

[skeletripe]

Sorry about this being an image post. Tumblr won't let me make a text post because Tumblr's coders are incompetent morons. This one's called "Diary On The Ground" It is rumored that if you find an estranged diary laying on the ground at exactly 3:33 AM, you will have found a diary of an elusive escapee. This is an oddly specific rumor. This man or woman will be hidden around the town, and hidden well at that. The only people who will know where he or she is would be the homeless and those who worship Satan. Because hobos and Satanic cults are well-known for being reliable sources of information. You will know that you've found him if he has a tattoo on his arm, partially hidden by his or her sleeve, that says '616'. Right now, you may ask him what made him insane, why he ran away, anything relatigst don't offer him his diary back. If you plan to, bring any high caliber gun, and make sure your good at aiming it. When you offer it to him, he will scream with more anguish then you have ever heard, and will attack. This is the kind of horror story a 14-year-old would write after playing a Resident Evil game, and not the good Resident Evils. He became insane due to the satanic rituals that were performed on him, causing a demon to manifest itself inside his/her body an incredible amount of strength and willpower. When your creepypasta reads like a videogame manual, something's gone very very wrong. If you manage to kill him, inside his body you will find a gleaming crystal, seemingly emanating light. You must not touch it, or the demon will take over you. If the demon kills you, however, he will absorb your soul, and send it to hell for all eternity as to add one more soldier to hell's legion's. Did someone from TV Tropes write this? This sounds like a video game fanfiction. There's nothing scary about it. This is why the Creepypasta Wiki is such an unreliable source of entertainment. For every good or interesting story, there's twenty poorly-written, dumb stinkers like this one. Finding something good there is like digging for sweet corn in a latrine pit. And believe me, they will be moving out very soon. "And they will move in with youuuuuuu! And they won't pay their rent on time! OOOOoooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOoooo!" This is an example of a bad ritual creepypasta. Grant you, there are some pretty good ritual creepypastas, but they are few and hard to find. Most of them are like this one, overly-specific, nonsensical, and just plain uninteresting.

[metrokitty]

[skeletripe]

Behold the writing process behind Lost Episode creepypastas

[skeletripe]

The Cleansing Sucks, Dudes

This creepypasta is from the Creepypasta Wiki, where it is loved and well-reviewed.

It's called "The Cleansing" and it sucks elephant dick.

I had never given much thought to how I would die. Maybe it was because I had spent most of my life thinking about how others would die. Especially my mother. She never understood the elaborate intricacies of my mind. And now she never will.  And we're off to a bad start. This is supposed to be a guy narrating this. Does anybody you know talk like this? Nobody talks like this. One rule a lot of amateurs and hack writers forget is that if a story is told from the first person, the narrator should speak naturally for a human being or else the immersion is lost. Nobody says stuff like 'elaborate intricacies of my mind' unless they're embellishing their OKCupid profile.

"I am an atheist and a brony, only respond if you can appreciate subtle intricacies of my mind. I expect dates to pay for their meal in Bitcoin." But her voice never stopped ringing through my mind. Constantly… Constantly… The sound of her shrill voice constantly pounds through my mind. The only way to stop the sound is to silence it with blood. My name is Roger. Roger Gail. I am a physics teacher at the local high school. I have a deep connection with my mother. She’s a bitch. A horrible woman. She “Cleansed” me every day I came home from school. This is a serial killer story if you haven't figured it out. One written by someone who does not understand jack nor shit about serial killers, abnormal psychology, or telling a scary story.

Research is important, whether you're writing a short story or getting rid of five hundred dollars in counterfeit bills.

Not that I would know about that last part.

I wasn’t allowed to do extracurricular activities. They were unclean. I wasn’t allowed to have friends. They were unclean. Every goddamn part of my life was unclean. So basically this is a gritty retelling of Adam Sandler's 'The Water Boy'

I was never good enough for my mother. Never. But mother protected me from the world. The world was dirty. The world is dirty… Yes… Dirty. The filthy unclean feelings I get when I lay in my bed. I don’t need the touch of anyone. All I needed was Mother. Yes. Mother. When I have those feelings, special feelings, I think of mother, and I am soothed. With every drop of blood I spill, a pleasure unlike any I've ever known. Serial killers do not talk like a  scene kid's poetry. I can already tell this was made by someone whose knowledge of serial killers begins and ends at slasher movies and TV.

Every detail of this story is paint by numbers. He's got an insane quasi-fundamentalist mother, he hates said mother, he is almost certainly going to kill his mom before the end of this.

I'm gonna guess what happens in the sequel: This kid evades capture despite all odds and laws of common sense and he goes on long tangents about how the world doesn't understand him while the author listens to sludge metal.

Every day I’d come home from school to, “Roger! You have been a dirty boy today. Time for your bath!” Bath. Such a horrid word. Mother would always make me sit in the bathtub and she would pour bleach onto my naked flesh… She would begin scrubbing my body with steel wool and bleach, and then I would begin scrubbing.  I'm gonna call bullshit. If you were bathed in bleach and scrubbed with steel wool every day, you would fucking die. Bleach is an extremely toxic and corrosive chemical, just getting it on your skin can cause nasty burns.

This kid must be made of porcelain is what I'm saying. I was filthy, and I needed to be cleansed. “Now don’t worry, son. This won’t hurt a bit.” She would say that every time. Then she would scrub my face. The burning pain would sear my eyes. But it was okay. The pain was good. The pain was clean. "The pain made me legally blind in one eye and some got in my urethra so now it burns when I pee." The pain was always followed by the pleasure. Mother would scrub every inch of my body until she reached… My center. My center would tingle as she stroked me with her pointy, pale fingers. I never minded. This was my reward for being clean. My life at the school was like that of any other child. Nobody ever saw what a fucked up kid I was. Mother never brought me to the school in fear of becoming filthy, so I walked to school. The path I would take was through the forest near my house. Dark, quiet, a silent tension of danger and lustful vengeance was suspended in the air of the forest.  This is suburban goth kid poetry in story form. Nobody talks like this. No serial killer talks like this. This is the writing of a sheltered kid who's only exposure to the darker side of life comes from Linkin Park lyrics. It reeks of edgy, the bad kind of edgy. There's no substance, it's all taken from the most superficial aspects of pop culture slasher bad guys.

He acts like a cheap knock off of Francis Dollarhyde with brain damage. I love the tension. Gave me the biggest fucking hard-on ever. I never gave a fuck if I was late to school. No one loved me. No one gave a flying fuck if I lived or died! No… No… Mother loved me. That’s why she cleansed me. Every day. The cleansing.

Mr. Clean is a harsh and demanding god.

Every day I would await my cleansing. When I was 17, I came home one day, awaiting the pleasure and pain of being pure. “Mother, I’m home…” No answer. As I walked down the hallway to my bedroom, I began hearing a thumping. A loud, thunderous thumping. The noise was originating out of Mother’s room. I had never heard such a noise. "THE SOUND OF THUMPING IS ALIEN TO MY EARS" “Mother? Are you alright?” I tentatively asked as I entered the room. Was Mother okay? Was she alright? Was she being hurt? Wh-what was going on? Why was that man ramming his body into Mother? Who was this man?! What were these sounds coming out of Mother?! Oh God the sounds. I needed them to stop. Make them stop! I made them stop. Over above Mother’s dresser was a large metal crucifix with a pointed end on it. Mother was incredibly religious. That dumb cunt would believe anything.  EDGY AS FUCK DON'T CUT YOURSELF ON MY EDGY

See what I mean? This story tries hard to be edgy at the detriment of everything. If you can look past the shock attempts, there's nothing to this creepypasta. It takes cliches and does nothing new or interesting with them.

I removed the crucifix from the wall and ran towards the man with its pointed end upward. Before the man had any time to scream, or even whimper, I beat him senseless with it. I just kept hitting him and hitting him, blood and eventually brain matter were splattering all over onto my body, the walls, and on Mother. The dumb bitch was screaming her head off in terror. I didn’t mind. I finally took what was left of the crucifix, the statue of Jesus had fallen off of it, and pierced the cross into the man’s eye socket. Oh wow a murder scene with no build up I'm fucking scared here.

The un-named man might as well be a big balloon full of fake blood for all he contributes to the narrative. “Roger! What the hell is the matter with you?!” Mother… Oh Mother. She would get hers eventually. But the man was still breathing. Still a glimmer of hope that his fragile, filthy life would survive. No. I would make sure his dirty life never saw the light of day again. I grabbed a hold of his loose limbs and dragged his mangled body down the staircase. Each thud on the wooden staircase cracked a deeper wound into the fuck’s head. Blood spread like water flowing down a sewage drain down the stairs. I thrusted the body into the kitchen. A deep murmur of pain escaped from the distorted, swollen body at my feet. Again, there was no buildup to this, actual serial killers tend to have long histories of violent anti-social behavior. This kid is just some hypochondriac's son who decides to kill someone for funsies. “Shut up you fucking bastard! How dare you defile Mother!” I grabbed his bloody, greasy black hair and rammed his skull into the table, shoving the crucifix farther into his brain. The squish sound, the smooth entrance, it was all I could do not to scream with pleasure. I felt my center throb. I needed to finish. I couldn’t stop now. I grunted as I opened the fridge door, shoved the fuck’s head into the shelves of the fridge and rammed the door shut, over and over, just like he rammed Mother. He would no longer ram her. No one would. Blood spilled all over the floor and I felt the pleasure I so desired. The inescapable moment of passion was almost too much to bear. This is the only part of the creepypasta with any effort put into it.

If you listen closely, you can hear the author beating off. I collapsed onto the floor. The tingling in my body finally coming to an end. But the filthy, bio hazardous mess was still left. I must clean. I took the body, and threw him down the laundry chute. Hmmmm…the body won’t fit. His large phallus got him into this mess, and it would get him out. I took my Swiss army knife and began cutting off his member. The pop sound of my knife entering and the deep, tight sliding of my knife sent chills of joy down my spine. Once I finished, the body slid down the chute. I calmly walked downstairs, hands shaking, and shoved the body into the dryer. High seemed like a good setting. Once I heard the mangled corpse rumbling around, I went up to Mother. This fic tries way too fucking hard with too little skill. If you're going to write about a murderous lunatic, it would do you well to avoid Creepypasta and read about actually murderers. This is basic, common sense shit, nobody should have to tell you this. “Mother, it’s time for my bath.” Oh, Mother. So naïve. As I undressed for my bath, I noticed Mother’s hands shaking as she prepared the bath. She scrubbed my body raw, harder, and harder. I closed my eyes, dreaming of the feel of blood and metal sliding through my hands. What the actual fuck. She witnesses her kid murder her lover in cold blood and instead of calling the goddamn police, she runs him a bath when he asks. This is dumb, dumb, dumb. If your story relies on the characters doing things nobody with two brain cells to rub together would do, it's time to do some rewriting. “Alright, Son. You’re finished.” WHAT?!?!?!?!? THAT BITCH WAS NOT DONE WITH ME YET!!! NO!!! HOW DARE SHE?!?!? No! No… No… I would get my pleasure, one way or another.

"NO FUCK YOU MOM I PAID FOR A FULL HOUR"

This fic was well received on the Creepypasta Wiki Let that settle in your mind for a bit. There was absolutely no reason to put that bit in allcaps. The exclamation marks do a good job of conveying intensity and volume by themselves in language.

I grabbed at her hair and slammed her face into the side of the tub. My arms tensed and trembling. Blood and teeth spatter around the baby blue tile floor. “You dirty, filthy whore. You will not treat me this way. I will get what I want.” I ran downstairs naked and wet. I reached into one of the kitchen drawers and grabbed the pliers. I felt light as air as I climbed the stairs slowly back up to the bathroom. Upon entering the room, I took in my surroundings of blood, teeth, and anticipation. I was ready for this. I would be in charge now. This story almost feels like it should start with "This Troper..." I reached down and lifted Mother’s unconscious head and pulled her into my lap. Her soft, graying hair brushing against my throbbing genitals. I needed more though. MORE! I jammed the pliers into Mother’s mouth and began twisting and ripping out her teeth. The popping sound of teeth sliding out of her old, withered, decaying gums. Blood mixed with saliva dribbled out of her mouth. Her mouth was left as an empty cavern of warmth, wetness, and wild pleasure. I held Mother’s head softly and slid her mouth onto my throbbing shaft. Oh the pleasure. The warmth. The blood. Ugh, all that blood. Yes. Yes. I felt my body lose control as I started to thrust deeper and harder into her mouth. "Popping sound" "Sliding out"

That's a contradiction. Either they popped out, which excludes sliding because sliding conveys the idea that it was easily extracted. 

Also what is the point of the kid's home dentistry? When a serial killer mangles a victim's body, it's usually done in a certain way for a certain reason, like how Andrei Chikatilo cut off the genitals of his victims because of his anger over his sexual impotence.  I felt the back of her throat close around me. NO! I needed to go farther. I pulled my slimy, quivering shaft out of Mother’s mouth and dug the pliers into the back of her throat. I rammed, and jammed, and thrust, and penetrate. Once I felt her spine, I opened the pliers, squeezed them onto the rough bone, and yanked with all my might. The crack of the bone, the twang of the spinal cord breaking, Mother’s body jolting as her spinal cord disconnected her conscious. This is not horror This is shit that even Eli Roth would find stupid and lowbrow.

Also, his mother's spine must be made of soft cheese if he can dig down to her spine with a pair of pliers. I threw her to the ground, got over her mouth, and thrust deep into her mouth, harder, harder, harder!!!!! Uuughhhhh! I collapsed down onto the ground, ooze dripping out of my descending member. The blood surrounding me was like a blanket of comfort. I laid my head on Mother’s cold chest, and fell asleep... A classy place, the Creepypasta Wiki. Praising two bit torture porn.

[skeletripe]

A Mission Statment

There's a lot of creepypasta out there.

Most of it's crap.

However, that's not the whole problem. The people who write creepypasta and pass it around generally do not know much about storytelling or horror.

This amateur community has an unfortunate habit of passing around stories that probably do not deserve to be reposted so often.

I'm going to be taking a look at these creepypastas and pick them apart like a hungry crow, pointing out storytelling flaws.

[moaniecat]

Breakfast food.

—-

It seems that I can only draw food or boys from a certain bike anime these days.

[skeletripe]

The Russian Sleep Experiment is not scary

The Russian Sleep Experiment is a very well known creepypasta.

It is also not very good as a story and absolutely terrible as a scary story.

Let me explain using the text here.

Russian researchers in the late 1940s kept five people awake for fifteen days using an experimental gas based stimulant. They were kept in a sealed environment to carefully monitor their oxygen intake so the gas didn't kill them, since it was toxic in high concentrations.

This was before closed circuit cameras so they had only microphones and 5 inch thick glass porthole sized windows into the chamber to monitor them. The chamber was stocked with books, cots to sleep on but no bedding, running water and toilet, and enough dried food to last all five for over a month.

The test subjects were political prisoners deemed enemies of the state during World War II.

It starts off with exposition. Really, the whole story is exposition. This story suffers from the dry, near-clinical tone of the prose. It would have worked better if:

1. It went into more detail and gave the test subjects names, personalities, histories, and other things to make them full characters. This would help get the reader emotionally invested and better emphasize the cruelty of the experiment and the Soviet government. It's not scary when a flat, amorphous group with no personalities among them die horribly. It's like if someone videotaped themselves burning a yeast colony over a hot stove and expecting you to be scared as each cell died. 

2. It were presented in the form of leaked government documents or lab notes. Then it would take the dry prose and turn it into an asset and create a greater sense of atmosphere and immersion.

As it is, this story isn't scary because there's no emotional core. There's no characters to give a damn about and the premise itself is just a big pile of wasted potential.

Speaking of wasted potential, how about Obama's presidency?

Did you see that?

That was topical satire right there.

Everything was fine for the first five days; the subjects hardly complained having been promised (falsely) that they would be freed if they submitted to the test and did not sleep for 30 days. Their conversations and activities were monitored and it was noted that they continued to talk about increasingly traumatic incidents in their past, and the general tone of their conversations took on a darker aspect after the 4 day mark.

This story is all about telling and not showing. The bit about the conversations and activities being monitored and them talking about traumatic pasts would have been much more effective if the story went into any detail about said things or actually showed us. What the currently unidentified (I can't blame him. I wouldn't want to put my name on this thing either) writer should have done is give us the specifics. Tell us about things like the test subjects arguing over portion sizes at meal time, have them talk about their families and what they did to get into this mess. Maybe one of them was a piano teacher who was caught making a joke about Stalin's mother. Maybe one of them was a bureaucrat who got falsely accused of publishing anti-Soviet tracts by a political rival. Those are interesting things. This isn't a story, it's a brief summary of one.

After five days they started to complain about the circumstances and events that lead them to where they were and started to demonstrate severe paranoia. They stopped talking to each other and began alternately whispering to the microphones and one way mirrored portholes. Oddly they all seemed to think they could win the trust of the experimenters by turning over their comrades, the other subjects in captivity with them. At first the researchers suspected this was an effect of the gas itself...

Like I said, it's hard to get interested in a downward spiral of a group's collective sanity if there's no showing. Tell us HOW they're showing severe paranoia, let us hear those conversations. This is just lazy. I'm getting the impression that the writer is just trying to rush through the setup so he can get to the gore, which explains why this story reads like a description of a movie on fast-forward.

After nine days the first of them started screaming. He ran the length of the chamber repeatedly yelling at the top of his lungs for 3 hours straight, he continued attempting to scream but was only able to produce occasional squeaks. The researchers postulated that he had physically torn his vocal cords.

Or he could have just strained them to the point where he couldn't exert them. Like how your legs feel weak if you've been walking over a really long distance. I'm not asking for total medical accuracy. I'm just saying that I smell bullshit here. 

The most surprising thing about this behavior is how the other captives reacted to it... or rather didn't react to it. They continued whispering to the microphones until the second of the captives started to scream. The 2 non-screaming captives took the books apart, smeared page after page with their own feces and pasted them calmly over the glass portholes. The screaming promptly stopped.

So did the whispering to the microphones.

Well then. If they were going to smear shit everywhere, they might as well have been running these experiments on monkeys. Also, the mental image of two guys smearing shit on book pages and sticking them over the windows while another guy screams his lungs out isn't scary, it sounds like a G G Allin concert.

After 3 more days passed. The researchers checked the microphones hourly to make sure they were working, since they thought it impossible that no sound could be coming with 5 people inside. The oxygen consumption in the chamber indicated that all 5 must still be alive. In fact it was the amount of oxygen 5 people would consume at a very heavy level of strenuous exercise. On the morning of the 14th day the researchers did something they said they would not do to get a reaction from the captives, they used the intercom inside the chamber, hoping to provoke any response from the captives they were afraid were either dead or vegetables.

So they never cleaned the shitpaper off the windows or thought to check on them regularly. These are some bright scientists here. Mother Russia's greatest minds took 3 days to come up with the idea of 'check on the test subjects regularly.' Keeping the portholes clean never came to them, though. This is an example of story contrivance because for this to happen as the story says, the researchers would have to be incompetent. These docs are less like Dr. Mengele and more like Dr. Gumby, Brain Specialist

They announced: "We are opening the chamber to test the microphones; step away from the door and lie flat on the floor or you will be shot. Compliance will earn one of you your immediate freedom."

To their surprise they heard a single phrase in a calm voice response: "We no longer want to be freed."

"We're postwar Soviet citizens. This holding cell is bigger than all our apartments combined."

Debate broke out among the researchers and the military forces funding the research. Unable to provoke any more response using the intercom it was finally decided to open the chamber at midnight on the fifteenth day.

It sure would have been nice to see that debate. That's the big problem with this story. It's boring, the prose is bland and bereft of character, and it's very hard to masturbate to.

The chamber was flushed of the stimulant gas and filled with fresh air and immediately voices from the microphones began to object. 3 different voices began begging, as if pleading for the life of loved ones to turn the gas back on. The chamber was opened and soldiers sent in to retrieve the test subjects. They began to scream louder than ever, and so did the soldiers when they saw what was inside. Four of the five subjects were still alive, although no one could rightly call the state that any of them in 'life.'

That's some awkward wording near the end.

The food rations past day 5 had not been so much as touched. There were chunks of meat from the dead test subject's thighs and chest stuffed into the drain in the center of the chamber, blocking the drain and allowing 4 inches of water to accumulate on the floor. Precisely how much of the water on the floor was actually blood was never determined. All four 'surviving' test subjects also had large portions of muscle and skin torn away from their bodies. The destruction of flesh and exposed bone on their finger tips indicated that the wounds were inflicted by hand, not with teeth as the researchers initially thought. Closer examination of the position and angles of the wounds indicated that most if not all of them were self-inflicted.

So the experimental sleep-suppressing stimulant made the subjects claw themselves apart.

Why?

This is what's going to really kill the reader's suspension of disbelief. There's no logic to any of these events. It's a nonsensical story. It's not like in Eraserhead or an Aphex Twin music video where the absurdity of what's going on is the disturbing part. This was set up as a straightforward military experiment horror story, the reader expects the events to unroll in a way that makes at least some sort of sense. 

The abdominal organs below the ribcage of all four test subjects had been removed. While the heart, lungs and diaphragm remained in place, the skin and most of the muscles attached to the ribs had been ripped off, exposing the lungs through the ribcage. All the blood vessels and organs remained intact, they had just been taken out and laid on the floor, fanning out around the eviscerated but still living bodies of the subjects. The digestive tract of all four could be seen to be working, digesting food. It quickly became apparent that what they were digesting was their own flesh that they had ripped off and eaten over the course of days.

This story is trying way too hard. Not only did they rip themselves apart (wooo), they pulled out their organs (Woooooo!) and ate their own flesh (WOOoOoOoOoOo!!) Again, why? Some people on PCP will claw their own flesh and cut themselves, but that's because the drug causes them to experience delusions that there's bugs and shit crawling under their skin. We're not given that detail here. This is like your cousin trying to scare you by saying "BLOODY FINGERS" and waving his arms around and it's the middle of the day, and you weren't telling ghost stories, and screw you Kevin this is why your dad drinks.

Most of the soldiers were Russian special operatives at the facility, but still many refused to return to the chamber to remove the test subjects. They continued to scream to be left in the chamber and alternately begged and demanded that the gas be turned back on, lest they fall asleep...

Hardened Russian spec ops soldiers are scared of mangled bodies despite them likely having served in World War II.

I'm smelling bullshit again. 

To everyone's surprise the test subjects put up a fierce fight in the process of being removed from the chamber. One of the Russian soldiers died from having his throat ripped out, another was gravely injured by having his testicles ripped off and an artery in his leg severed by one of the subject's teeth. Another 5 of the soldiers lost their lives if you count ones that committed suicide in the weeks following the incident.

And now the test subjects are somehow capable of killing able bodied soldiers despite missing half their flesh and organs.

Are the soldier's armed? Why didn't they open fire after the first guy got jumped? This bit hinges on the soldiers not using the guns they were trained to use in this very situation.

And I'm still calling bullshit on the mangled guinea pigs being able to fight like that. If someone loses half a pint of blood, they start feeling queasy, you'd have to be a fucking starfish to lose half your pieces and still keep on trucking. Shit, is that what the gas was? Was it starfish DNA in vapor form?

In the struggle one of the four living subjects had his spleen ruptured and he bled out almost immediately. The medical researchers attempted to sedate him but this proved impossible. He was injected with more than ten times the human dose of a morphine derivative and still fought like a cornered animal, breaking the ribs and arm of one doctor. When heart was seen to beat for a full two minutes after he had bled out to the point there was more air in his vascular system than blood. Even after it stopped he continued to scream and flail for another 3 minutes, struggling to attack anyone in reach and just repeating the word "MORE" over and over, weaker and weaker, until he finally fell silent.

And one of the test subjects who clawed their flesh and organs out bled out after having a ruptured spleen.

Was this story written by Oscar Meyer? Because it's full of baloney.

The surviving three test subjects were heavily restrained and moved to a medical facility, the two with intact vocal cords continuously begging for the gas demanding to be kept awake...

'But Mooom! I'm not sleepy! I wanna claw my pieces off more!'

The most injured of the three was taken to the only surgical operating room that the facility had. In the process of preparing the subject to have his organs placed back within his body it was found that he was effectively immune to the sedative they had given him to prepare him for the surgery. He fought furiously against his restraints when the anesthetic gas was brought out to put him under.

Putting their organs back in.

After they've been pulled out and laid on the floor for days.

I hope like hell the joker who wrote this isn't in Med School.

He managed to tear most of the way through a 4 inch wide leather strap on one wrist, even through the weight of a 200 pound soldier holding that wrist as well. It took only a little more anesthetic than normal to put him under, and the instant his eyelids fluttered and closed, his heart stopped. In the autopsy of the test subject that died on the operating table it was found that his blood had triple the normal level of oxygen. His muscles that were still attached to his skeleton were badly torn and he had broken 9 bones in his struggle to not be subdued. Most of them were from the force his own muscles had exerted on them.

And why is he not dead?

Explain this Mickey Mouse shit right now.

The second survivor had been the first of the group of five to start screaming. His vocal cords destroyed he was unable to beg or object to surgery, and he only reacted by shaking his head violently in disapproval when the anesthetic gas was brought near him. He shook his head yes when someone suggested, reluctantly, they try the surgery without anesthetic, and did not react for the entire 6 hour procedure of replacing his abdominal organs and attempting to cover them with what remained of his skin. The surgeon presiding stated repeatedly that it should be medically possible for the patient to still be alive. One terrified nurse assisting the surgery stated that she had seen the patients mouth curl into a smile several times, whenever his eyes met hers.

These are Soviet scientists. These are the same people who hooked severed dog heads to life support machines and tested grenades on prisoners. Them being scared of this is an obvious attempt on the writer's part to tell the reader to be scared with them. It's not going to work on anybody but stupid people and kids. (But I repeat myself)

When the surgery ended the subject looked at the surgeon and began to wheeze loudly, attempting to talk while struggling. Assuming this must be something of drastic importance the surgeon had a pen and pad fetched so the patient could write his message. It was simple. "Keep cutting."

I rolled my eyes so hard at this that they got stuck.

I'm gonna sue for this.

The other two test subjects were given the same surgery, both without anesthetic as well. Although they had to be injected with a paralytic for the duration of the operation. The surgeon found it impossible to perform the operation while the patients laughed continuously. Once paralyzed the subjects could only follow the attending researchers with their eyes. The paralytic cleared their system in an abnormally short period of time and they were soon trying to escape their bonds. The moment they could speak they were again asking for the stimulant gas. The researchers tried asking why they had injured themselves, why they had ripped out their own guts and why they wanted to be given the gas again.

If you ever wanted to know what kind of story would be rejected by the SyFy channel, here it is.

Only one response was given: "I must remain awake."

"I have finals in the morning!"

All three subject's restraints were reinforced and they were placed back into the chamber awaiting determination as to what should be done with them. The researchers, facing the wrath of their military 'benefactors' for having failed the stated goals of their project considered euthanizing the surviving subjects. The commanding officer, an ex-KGB instead saw potential, and wanted to see what would happen if they were put back on the gas. The researchers strongly objected, but were overruled.

Why didn't they just terminate them after they attacked the guards? They're a security risk and whatever B-Movie Science they were trying to do obviously failed so they're nothing but a liability. This is retarded with a capital Potato.

In preparation for being sealed in the chamber again the subjects were connected to an EEG monitor and had their restraints padded for long term confinement. To everyone's surprise all three stopped struggling the moment it was let slip that they were going back on the gas. It was obvious that at this point all three were putting up a great struggle to stay awake. One of subjects that could speak was humming loudly and continuously; the mute subject was straining his legs against the leather bonds with all his might, first left, then right, then left again for something to focus on. The remaining subject was holding his head off his pillow and blinking rapidly. Having been the first to be wired for EEG most of the researchers were monitoring his brain waves in surprise. They were normal most of the time but sometimes flat lined inexplicably. It looked as if he were repeatedly suffering brain death, before returning to normal. As they focused on paper scrolling out of the brainwave monitor only one nurse saw his eyes slip shut at the same moment his head hit the pillow. His brainwaves immediately changed to that of deep sleep, then flatlined for the last time as his heart simultaneously stopped.

The first brain wave reading device was developed in the 1960's.

This story takes place in the 40's.

You do the math. (Hint: 60 minus 40 equals This creepypasta sucks, Beavis)

The only remaining subject that could speak started screaming to be sealed in now. His brainwaves showed the same flatlines as one who had just died from falling asleep. The commander gave the order to seal the chamber with both subjects inside, as well as 3 researchers. One of the named three immediately drew his gun and shot the commander point blank between the eyes, then turned the gun on the mute subject and blew his brains out as well.

Self mutilation is edgy, secret experiments are edgy, suicide is edgy. If this thing has rape in it, we can fill out the EDGINESS Bingo card!

He pointed his gun at the remaining subject, still restrained to a bed as the remaining members of the medical and research team fled the room. "I won't be locked in here with these things! Not with you!" he screamed at the man strapped to the table. "WHAT ARE YOU?" he demanded. "I must know!"

This dialogue is just like an anime. You know, the shitty ones made to sell those spinning top toys or whatever plastic crap Japanese toy companies are peddling nowadays.

The subject smiled.

"Have you forgotten so easily?" The subject asked. "We are you. We are the madness that lurks within you all, begging to be free at every moment in your deepest animal mind. We are what you hide from in your beds every night. We are what you sedate into silence and paralysis when you go to the nocturnal haven where we cannot tread."

And we end with hokey,  goth-kid-poetry level dialogue. This is the most meaningless collection of words since Dianetics. This would stupid on its own, but mixed with the pointless gore and the rest of the nonsense and you get a powerful cocktail of Fuck-Ass Stupid. 

The researcher paused. Then aimed at the subject's heart and fired. The EEG flatlined as the subject weakly choked out, "So... nearly... free..."

This story is relatively short yet it feels like it drags on way, way longer. A dull opening, a plot hinging on everyone involved being stupid, pointless gore, with a pretentious monologue that sounds like it came from a pimply nerd wearing a dollar-store cape.

This creepypasta isn't the worst ever. It's just bleh. It could have been interesting but it wasn't done right. It reads more like a loose outline to a story than a full, fleshed out story.