𝐏𝐢𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐕𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬 [𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐲𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚 𝐗 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫] [𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏]
𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏: 𝟓:𝟏𝟑 𝐩𝐦
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author's note: Hi! I haven't written anything Creepypasta related in months, and quite possibly over a year if we also count any real story. I didn't abandon my other works, but I thought I'd write something to get back into the mood. let me know what y'all think!! Reader is in high school, but is a senior for the purpose of that late teenage feel but appropriate for any future suggestive themes. I know this plot trope (at least in this story so far) is cliche, but I promise I'm doing something a bit different and this is only part 1. yes, i am going for that midwestern/southern gothic vibe.
warnings: none. creepy undertones at most. but future chapters will be graphic. Fem reader, You/Yours/Your POV.
synopsis: An older teen plans an investigation into the recent murders and missing persons at the outer edge of her town's woodlands.
word count: 2k
song: A Quick One Before the Eternal Worm Devours Appalachia
The first thing you notice is how normal everything looks. That is probably the strangest part.
The world has not shifted to accommodate the fact that you are currently parked outside the entrance to the same woods people in town suddenly won’t shut up about. The same woods where police cars had crowded only days before. The same woods that had become flooded with grainy Facebook posts, overprotective parents, conspiracy theories, and comments from people pretending they knew more than they actually did.
Yet somehow, everything still looks painfully, annoyingly normal.
The sky remains bright in that warm late-afternoon way that makes the world feel slower. Golden sunlight spills lazily over the cracked pavement of the parking lot, catching against the rust creeping up the chain link gate ahead of you. Somewhere farther off, birds still chirp like they didn’t receive the memo that something awful happened here. The trees beyond the trail entrance stand dark and crowded together, but not threatening—not yet. Just still. Quiet…waiting. A storm is coming later. A nasty one, everyone assumes.
The weather app on your phone had practically yelled at you about it all morning. Heavy rain by evening. Thunderstorms, possible flooding in low areas. Your mother had even made one of those annoying little comments before work.
“Don’t stay out late if the weather gets violent.”
You had nodded, lied, and proceeded to do exactly the opposite. Your mother only has your best interest in mind—no mother wants their child to be out in horrid weather, God knows where, with God knows what happening to them. You don’t hold it against her. You can’t. But you’re a big girl now, you can handle yourself. That’s what you always tell yourself.
Your truck sits idling softly beneath you, occasionally giving a tiny shudder like it, too, disagrees with your choices. The inside smells faintly of old fabric, gas station snacks, and the ghost of vanilla air fresheners that stopped trying months ago. A hoodie sits crumpled in the passenger seat beside your backpack, tangled halfway around a flashlight you had almost forgotten to charge. The camera sits near the edge of the seat, strap twisted over itself, looking significantly more professional than you actually feel.
Because, truthfully? You have no idea what you’re doing.
Like…at all.
This isn’t some abandoned building on the edge of town. This isn’t sneaking into an old cemetery with friends at sixteen because everyone wants proof they aren’t scared. This isn’t late-night horror movies, urban legends, Reddit threads, or creepy YouTube deep dives you binge while eating microwaved Buldak at two in the morning. This is real.
Or at least real enough to make your stomach feel weird.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the plastic cup in your lap. It is cold enough to sting pleasantly against your skin, condensation gathering fast enough to leave dampness on your jeans whenever you adjust your grip. Tiny droplets slide down the side and onto your hand, cool against the warmth building inside the truck from the afternoon sun.
Absentmindedly, you lift it again. The straw bends softly between your teeth as you bite down for a second before taking a sip.
Sweet. Really sweet. Almost embarrassingly sweet. The kind of drink that tastes vaguely fruity with something sharper hiding underneath—cold enough to make your teeth ache if you drink too fast, caffeinated enough to leave a little buzz humming beneath your ribs. Probably too much sugar. Definitely too much sugar.
But comforting. Something normal. Something that belongs to gas stations after school and bad financial decisions—not parked outside a murder scene.
The ice shifts quietly inside the cup. You swallow, eyes drifting back toward the gate. Still nothing. No police tape anymore. No investigators. No activity. It is just nature. Just the quiet, awfully cold, dense woods. The trail disappears only a few feet in.
That bothers you more than you want to admit. It just swallows itself, like the trees decided outsiders only get to see the entrance.
The rusty gate sits crooked where time has slowly eaten at it, a faded warning sign hanging sideways near the latch like even it has given up trying to stop people. Someone carved initials into the nearby wood post years ago, half hidden beneath weather damage.
From where you sit, it almost looks like the woods swallow themselves whole, dense brush and towering trees knitting together into something darker just past the entrance. Sunlight reaches the edge of the path, catching on damp leaves and patches of dirt, but farther in? Nothing. It all melts into shadow. Not the kind horror movies exaggerate into pitch blackness, but the kind of darkness that feels thick. The kind where details blur together the longer you look at them, until your eyes start making shapes out of nothing.
Maybe it's dramatic. Maybe you have watched too many movies.
Probably.
Still, you find yourself staring a little too long.
Your music plays faintly from the truck speakers, turned low enough that it barely exists. Gentle rhythms hum beneath the engine, soft enough to blur into the atmosphere rather than interrupt it. You turned it down twenty minutes ago and never bothered turning it back up.
Its usual volume feels wrong, and silence feels worse.
You lean back in your seat, exhaling hard through your nose as you let your head rest briefly against the worn fabric behind you.
“This is actually insane,” you mutter.
The music hums quietly through the speakers, low enough to almost disappear beneath the truck’s idle. Soft guitar, distant vocals—something mellow enough to keep you grounded. You turned it down earlier without thinking, as though being loud out here somehow feels disrespectful. Like talking too loudly in a church or hospital waiting room.
It's stupid. Nobody is even here.
You shift in your seat, rolling your shoulders back against the worn fabric and letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Your fingers tap nervously against the side of your drink, nails clicking softly against the plastic lid while condensation dampens your palm. The sweetness still lingers on your tongue, syrupy and cold, chased faintly by caffeine buzzing unpleasantly beneath your skin.
Your leg bounces absentmindedly beneath the steering wheel, denim shifting softly against the worn seat as nervous energy settles somewhere uncomfortable beneath your ribs. You stop it after a second, annoyed with yourself, only for it to start up again without permission. Your eyes drift toward the passenger seat where your things sit in an unorganized pile, looking significantly less impressive the longer you stare at them. A backpack half unzipped, a flashlight you probably forgot to charge, a portable charger you pray still works, and pepper spray you barely remembered owning until this morning. Your camera rests closest to the edge, strap twisted over itself like even it looks unsure about being here.
Honestly, the setup looks embarrassingly underwhelming. Less experienced paranormal investigator and more teenager preparing to get murdered.
The thought almost makes you laugh.
“Okay,” you mutter softly to yourself, thumb mindlessly rubbing condensation from the side of your drink. “That’s dramatic.”
Your own voice sounds strangely loud in the cab of the truck, swallowed awkwardly by old upholstery and the quiet hum of the engine beneath you. For a second, you just sit there listening to the soft music playing low through the speakers, to the faint creak of your truck settling, to birds somewhere farther away that still sound painfully unaware of the fact people died out here. Outside, the breeze shifts slightly, warmer than it was ten minutes ago, carrying that unmistakable smell storms always bring with them long before they arrive. Damp dirt, heated pavement waiting for rain. Something faintly electric lingering far off in the atmosphere, like the sky has already made up its mind and is only waiting for the right time to fall apart.
Your phone lights briefly in your lap when you check the time.
5:17 PM. Still plenty of daylight.
The storm is not supposed to hit until later, and you have already gone over the plan in your head at least twenty times before actually driving out here. Walk around for thirty minutes—forty, max if things stay calm. Stay near the entrance. Take some pictures, maybe record a little footage if anything looks weird enough for the blog. Leave before dark. Get home before the weather gets ugly enough for your mom to text passive-aggressive concern disguised as casual questions.
Simple & easy. Not a big deal.
Your mother never has to know you're here. Honestly, nobody has to know. Because if word somehow got out that you have willingly driven yourself to the exact woods where multiple bodies were recently discovered just to, in your own words, “check the vibes,” you would absolutely never recover socially. Your friends would clown on you for the next ten years. Your mother might actually kill you. And if nothing happens—which, realistically, nothing probably will—then you will just look stupid on top of everything else.
The thought almost makes you smile.
Almost.
Because beneath the awkward humor and all the rationalizing sits something heavier. Something persistent. Curiosity, ugly and impossible to ignore, gnawing at the back of your brain the same way it always has. The same curiosity that got you into trouble growing up, that kept you awake far later than you should have been while spiraling through urban legend forums, cold cases, missing person reports, and supernatural rabbit holes you swear you do not actually believe in.
Because what if there is something?
Not necessarily supernatural—God, you are insane.
But what if people missed something? What if police overlooked something weird? Something small. Something unsettling enough to make sense of the awful pit that settles in your stomach every time you think about this place. A piece of evidence left behind, maybe. Something explainable, but strange enough to satisfy that horrible little itch in the back of your brain that constantly demands answers to things you probably have no business involving yourself in.
Or worse—what if there's not? What if this really is exactly what everyone says it is? Something terrible. Something senseless.
No mystery, no hidden story. Just some senseless acts violence.
The thought sat heavier than you expected.
Your eyes wandered back toward the woods again, narrowing slightly against the sunlight filtering through the trees. Everything remained painfully still. Quiet. Ordinary, even. The breeze stirred leaves near the entrance every now and then, sunlight catching briefly against branches before disappearing deeper into shadow. For a moment, though—just a second—you could have sworn something shifted farther in. Not movement exactly. Nothing obvious. Just that strange feeling of your eyes catching on shadow wrong, your brain convincing itself something had changed before logic caught up.
You blinked. Nothing. Just trees and the warm sunlight that feels like a stark contrast to the terror you're going to inflict upon yourself. Leaves shifting lazily in the breeze.
You let out a slow breath through your nose, immediately annoyed with yourself as you lifted your drink again, the straw bending faintly between your teeth.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered quietly. “You haven’t even gotten out of the truck yet.”
Then the music in your speakers crackled—just once. Like something else had brushed against the signal for half a second too long. It didn’t stop, It just bent, fluttering like a heartbeat before smoothing itself back into place like nothing had happened.
Your eyes drifted down to the dashboard radio without really thinking about it, startled by the faint drum. The clock was still there, glowing softly in its usual steady way. Normal. But something in your chest tightened anyway.
5:13 PM.
What? Excuse me?
It was only a few minutes from before. Still, when your gaze flicked back up to the dashboard clock, your stomach dropped.
You frowned, pulling your phone up from your lap. The screen lit your face in the dim interior of the truck, and you blinked as the numbers caught your attention. 5:13 PM.
You were almost certain it hadn’t been that time a second ago.
