C R E E P Y P A S T A
And now, for a title style that totally wasn't stolen from
mistressxwinter
because I thought it looked cool!
A collection of the Creepypasta I, myself, have written.
Mirror Image
Don’t look into the same mirror too much.
Each time you look into a mirror, a small fragment of your soul is taken from you. Not a big piece, however. If taken from you in moderation, you won’t notice a thing. But, if you stare into the same mirror too many times, you’ll start to feel an impact. Your body will become gray; your voice will begin to taste lethargic and dead against your tongue. Each time you see yourself in this mirror, you will notice a silhouette of something stronger behind your dilapidated appearance. As more fragments are taken away, this shadow will grow. It will gain power and dimension, until one day, it has enough shards of your soul. With these pieces, it will seize the opportunity and step away from the mirror, taking hold of your body: claiming it as its own.
Remember: everything reflected in a mirror is reversed.
Barbie's Smile
There is a little girl in a corner, legs tucked beneath her. Her hair is strawberry, her eyes moss-tinted. Her small fingers are curled around the thin, perfect physique of plastic. She looks down at the doll and tilts her head at the painted-on eyes that sparkle with mirth no matter the situation she puts her through.
She walks the Barbie forward, the hips rolling without regard for who may be watching. The blond hair swings in movement with her body, always chic, always shiny and gorgeous. The girl places the doll down forcefully, the legs spreading wide open. Through the skirt, you can see the painted on underwear to protect from fanatical mothers and lawsuits over mature content. That smile is still in place, the fake, grinning lips as pink as always.
The girl glares down at her doll, fingers gripping tighter to the plastic. She has tried to wipe that goddamn smile off that face so many times. She has put the doll through terrible deeds. The doll has murdered her own sister, has lit houses on fire. Her boyfriend has broken up with her (which she promptly stabbed him in the heart for this), and she has even crashed her car into a bus full of young children. Still, that fucking smile is still there!
Her eyes slit as she forces the doll down onto the ground. She moves forward, above the doll, her nose only inches away from that flawless face. The girl’s hands move down the body, stopping and gripping tightly to the well-toned thigh. An almost impish giggle bursts from her lips as she tugs.
The doll’s eyes remain laughing, the smile still as beautiful as ever. The girl tugs, grimacing in concentration, wanting to mar that impossible body as much as possible. She hears a wet squelching sound and the grimace turns into a leer. She rips her arm back and along comes the leg of the doll. There is no blood, only a trickle of liquid wax left from the heat of her fingers and the many hours of play.
Without skipping a beat, the girl moves forward and attacks the other leg. She holds the doll down by the waits, gritting her teeth together to stop herself from crying out. Finally, with one powerful wrench, the leg breaks free. She holds the two broken pieces between her hands and lets the sneer grow.
The arms are next. They come off much easier than the legs, as if Barbie’s will of life is diminishing. The girl’s eyes are focused on the arms as she pops each one off without difficulty. She holds the torso and head between her petite fingers. Finally, she lets her eyes travel to the dolls face, confident that the fucking smile will be gone.
To her dismay, she finds the pink lipstick lips are still there. Still smiling dumbly at her. The laughter in the eyes is evident. Barbie is mocking her, laughing at her inability to kill her, to get rid of the happiness in the dolls life.
The girl screams in the face of the doll; incoherent words. She grips the hair, the beach blond, glimmering hair, and tugs upward. She tangles the hair and continues to wrench, to pull, to tug at it. The head, with much resistance, finally slips off. The girl drops the torso to the ground, beside the worn arms and legs, and holds the head up to her face.
The smile is still there. Still. Fucking. There.
The girl screams. She screams so loud, the windows quiver in their resting place. The neighbors turn their heads to the house, wondering what could be causing that heart-stopping screech. She hollers and shouts at the doll, angered beyond anything over the fact that even through all the pain, through the torment, she is still happy. She is still grinning.
Are You There?
You may not be real. You may not exist. Your idea of “life” may simply be a fabrication of thought. Everything you know and love may disappear in a fog at any given moment. That mouse that’s held between loose lipped fingers might suddenly melt, may cave in upon itself and cease to be. The beating heart in your chest can stop beating. Your breath could collapse in your throat, wedge itself between vocal chords and solidify. The life you hold so dearly to your charcoaled soul may splinter and leave you gasping for air.
All it would take would be one thought, one question of, am I real? to start the chain reaction. Everything will deteriorate, decomposing and decaying faster than you can answer your own question. When the foundation of ideas crumbles, everything that idea has spawned will slowly fade away.
Look down at your hand.
Doesn’t it look paler than before?
Critique would be fantastic, but it's not too important since I also posted these on deviantART.
Posted from my first - Mirror Image - to my latest - Are You There?
Yes, I'm aware I've gotten better. XD;
I hope you guys enjoyed them, and got a little scared. :D
mistressxwinter
because I thought it looked cool!
A collection of the Creepypasta I, myself, have written.
Mirror Image
Don’t look into the same mirror too much.
Each time you look into a mirror, a small fragment of your soul is taken from you. Not a big piece, however. If taken from you in moderation, you won’t notice a thing. But, if you stare into the same mirror too many times, you’ll start to feel an impact. Your body will become gray; your voice will begin to taste lethargic and dead against your tongue. Each time you see yourself in this mirror, you will notice a silhouette of something stronger behind your dilapidated appearance. As more fragments are taken away, this shadow will grow. It will gain power and dimension, until one day, it has enough shards of your soul. With these pieces, it will seize the opportunity and step away from the mirror, taking hold of your body: claiming it as its own.
Remember: everything reflected in a mirror is reversed.
Barbie's Smile
There is a little girl in a corner, legs tucked beneath her. Her hair is strawberry, her eyes moss-tinted. Her small fingers are curled around the thin, perfect physique of plastic. She looks down at the doll and tilts her head at the painted-on eyes that sparkle with mirth no matter the situation she puts her through.
She walks the Barbie forward, the hips rolling without regard for who may be watching. The blond hair swings in movement with her body, always chic, always shiny and gorgeous. The girl places the doll down forcefully, the legs spreading wide open. Through the skirt, you can see the painted on underwear to protect from fanatical mothers and lawsuits over mature content. That smile is still in place, the fake, grinning lips as pink as always.
The girl glares down at her doll, fingers gripping tighter to the plastic. She has tried to wipe that goddamn smile off that face so many times. She has put the doll through terrible deeds. The doll has murdered her own sister, has lit houses on fire. Her boyfriend has broken up with her (which she promptly stabbed him in the heart for this), and she has even crashed her car into a bus full of young children. Still, that fucking smile is still there!
Her eyes slit as she forces the doll down onto the ground. She moves forward, above the doll, her nose only inches away from that flawless face. The girl’s hands move down the body, stopping and gripping tightly to the well-toned thigh. An almost impish giggle bursts from her lips as she tugs.
The doll’s eyes remain laughing, the smile still as beautiful as ever. The girl tugs, grimacing in concentration, wanting to mar that impossible body as much as possible. She hears a wet squelching sound and the grimace turns into a leer. She rips her arm back and along comes the leg of the doll. There is no blood, only a trickle of liquid wax left from the heat of her fingers and the many hours of play.
Without skipping a beat, the girl moves forward and attacks the other leg. She holds the doll down by the waits, gritting her teeth together to stop herself from crying out. Finally, with one powerful wrench, the leg breaks free. She holds the two broken pieces between her hands and lets the sneer grow.
The arms are next. They come off much easier than the legs, as if Barbie’s will of life is diminishing. The girl’s eyes are focused on the arms as she pops each one off without difficulty. She holds the torso and head between her petite fingers. Finally, she lets her eyes travel to the dolls face, confident that the fucking smile will be gone.
To her dismay, she finds the pink lipstick lips are still there. Still smiling dumbly at her. The laughter in the eyes is evident. Barbie is mocking her, laughing at her inability to kill her, to get rid of the happiness in the dolls life.
The girl screams in the face of the doll; incoherent words. She grips the hair, the beach blond, glimmering hair, and tugs upward. She tangles the hair and continues to wrench, to pull, to tug at it. The head, with much resistance, finally slips off. The girl drops the torso to the ground, beside the worn arms and legs, and holds the head up to her face.
The smile is still there. Still. Fucking. There.
The girl screams. She screams so loud, the windows quiver in their resting place. The neighbors turn their heads to the house, wondering what could be causing that heart-stopping screech. She hollers and shouts at the doll, angered beyond anything over the fact that even through all the pain, through the torment, she is still happy. She is still grinning.
Are You There?
You may not be real. You may not exist. Your idea of “life” may simply be a fabrication of thought. Everything you know and love may disappear in a fog at any given moment. That mouse that’s held between loose lipped fingers might suddenly melt, may cave in upon itself and cease to be. The beating heart in your chest can stop beating. Your breath could collapse in your throat, wedge itself between vocal chords and solidify. The life you hold so dearly to your charcoaled soul may splinter and leave you gasping for air.
All it would take would be one thought, one question of, am I real? to start the chain reaction. Everything will deteriorate, decomposing and decaying faster than you can answer your own question. When the foundation of ideas crumbles, everything that idea has spawned will slowly fade away.
Look down at your hand.
Doesn’t it look paler than before?
Critique would be fantastic, but it's not too important since I also posted these on deviantART.
Posted from my first - Mirror Image - to my latest - Are You There?
Yes, I'm aware I've gotten better. XD;
I hope you guys enjoyed them, and got a little scared. :D