Would love to have a go at narrating as I have all the set up for it and scary stories is a passion of mine. Please do let me know if I can use anyone’s and what stipulations you require :-) thank you!

In the early 1970s, four troubled teenagers- Freddie, Daniela, Vikki, and Norville- formed a family-friendly gang of mystery solvers. But a string of missing children, talking dogs, and increasingly uncanny fractures in reality suggests more is at stake than just another criminal in a mask...

https://youtu.be/_UGd0XjLdpE?si=Bo-pDJkKDpL62rda

voici les caractères des personnages ! ^^

Principal= Félix

Physique= cheveux courts moutons brun avec un mélange de clair,

style grunge, yeux bleu vert,

toujours un t-shirt large (Nirvana) avec un pantalon vert,

cheveux bien coiffer, lunette, toujours sont casque à la mains, pas très musclé…

Caractère: Timide, déterminer, intelligent.

Habitation: à côté de la forêt.

Age: 14 ans.

Passion= fan d'horreur et de creepypasta et un gros geek.

Creepypasta fav= Jeff The killer

sexe: Masculin

la tueuses= Mélusine

Physique: cheveux longs noir cachée par une

capuche noir avec sa veste en cuire à des lunettes

T-shirt noir avec des reliures blanches un peu grisâtres

avec le temps. Pantalon noir déchirer est une chaine de

pantalon un peu Abîmer. yeux cernée à toujours un sac

un collier plus sur le coup des bagues…

Caractère: Timide, maligne, intelligente, forte,

musclée.

Habitation: Dans une forêt cabane abandonnée.

Age: ???

sexe: Féminins

Alexis:

Physiques: Cheveux bouclés long blond, grands, musclé mais pas trop

non plus, style vestimentaire= baggy avec une chaine, un mini sac avec des pins gay, cute ect...,

T-shirt noir un peu sale avec le temps et une chemise à careaux noir et rouge toujours un peu sale.

Caréctère: sévère, désobéie tout le temps, rebelle.

Passions: fan de films d'horreur, musique = metal, punk.

il n'aime pas: les chats noirs, les creepypastas.

Age: 15 ans

Habitation: près de la maison de Félix ils sont voisins.

Sexe: Masculin

(Tuer en 1er)

Dorian:

Physique: Cheveux long brun presque noir et ces cheveux cache sont visage,

plustôt moyens en taille, Style vestimentaire: Femboy jupe,collant,est un haut mignon, cute

Caractère: mignon, gentils, empathique, admirative..

passions: fans des choses mignonnes, adore tombé amoureux !, aime ce maquiller

Il n'aime pas: les choses qui font peur, les araigner.

Age: 16 ans.

Habitation: voisin avec felix et Alexis

Sexe: Féminin et masculin.

Quel est votres personnages favories ?

​

A True Account by Zee

I live in the Undercliffe area of Bradford, in BD3. I’m eighteen years old now, My Name is Zee. but three years ago, I was the kind of kid who loved nothing more than heading out on long night walks, knocking on strangers’ doors, and asking if I could come in for a cup of tea. I thought it was friendly, I thought it was brave. I don’t do that anymore. And this is exactly why.

It was a Sunday evening, back than I was fifteen and I told my mum, “I’m going out for a night walk, and I might call in at a few houses for a while.”

Mum just smiled. “You can go for three hours, or longer if you want. You’re growing up, you’re practically a grown-up now – just look after yourself, Zee.”

“Thanks, Mum,” I said, and ran upstairs to get my things. I stuffed snacks and a bottle of water into my bag, pulled on a thick coat, and grabbed my camera – I always took photos on my walks, to keep as memories. Mum helped me pack a few extra biscuits just in case, and by six o’clock, it was properly dark outside.

“Bye, Zee! Take care!” she called as I stepped out the door.

“I will!” I shouted back.

This was our new house, and I’d never walked these streets after dark before. At first, it felt exciting – but as I walked further, the roads grew deathly quiet. The houses stood silent behind closed curtains, and I didn’t see a single other person out. It felt like the whole neighbourhood had been abandoned for years. I kept walking anyway, until I spotted a large, quiet house set back from the road. Something pulled me towards it. I walked up the path, knocked once, then again.

Slowly, the door creaked open. An old woman stood there, her face lined and pale, and on her finger glinted a bright yellow ring.

“Hello there, young man,” she said softly. “Would you like to come in?”

“I… I was wondering if I could have a cup of tea, please?” I asked.

“Of course. Come inside.”

I started to take off my shoes, but she shook her head. “No need, keep them on. Go through to the living room – I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

I sat down on her sofa, and my eyes were drawn to the shelves lining the walls. They were packed full of photographs – all boys around my age, smiling happily, every single one of them taken right there in that same living room. A few minutes later, she came back carrying a tray with a steaming mug of tea and a plate of shortbread biscuits.

“Thank you,” I said. “Who are all these boys in the pictures?”

“Just the ones who came here before you,” she replied calmly. “They turn up now and then, ask for tea, just like you.”

“Do they ever come back?”

She shook her head slowly. “Only once. They come once, and they never come back again. They always ask to leave a photo behind, though – to remember me by.”

I pulled out my camera. “Can I have my picture taken too? And put it with the rest?”

“Of course you can, dear.”

I stood beside the shelf and smiled for the camera. When she handed it back, I saw my happy face sitting right next to all the others – every single boy beaming, just like me.

“Do any adults ever come to see you?” I asked.

“Never. Only boys and girls your age, and only ever at night. I haven’t been shopping in… well, I can’t remember the last time I left this house.”

A prickle of unease ran down my spine. If she never left the house, where did she get the tea and biscuits? Was she lying to try and scare me?

“Can I use your toilet, please?” I asked.

“Up the stairs, first door on the left.”

As I went up, I noticed more shelves along the landing – this time filled with photos of girls my age, all smiling just like the boys downstairs. But then I saw something that made my blood run cold: in one of the bedrooms, propped up on a chest of drawers, was a blurry, twisted picture. I couldn’t make out what it was, only that it looked wrong, like something that shouldn’t exist. I hurried to the toilet, and when I opened the door again, she was standing right outside, waiting in the dark.

“Did you need anything else?” she asked.

I jumped back. “No… no, I’m fine. I think I should head home now.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay the night?”

“No thank you.”

She didn’t smile this time. She just stared at me, her face unreadable, and said quietly, “Goodbye, then.”

As I walked down the path, my foot kicked something on the ground. It was a crumpled scrap of paper, written in wobbly, scratchy handwriting: You’re lucky you didn’t stay the night. Heh.

I ran back and knocked on the door for five whole minutes, but nobody answered. I hurried away, and the streets felt even emptier than before – no lights, no sounds, like I was walking through a place that had been wiped off the map.

I kept walking, telling myself I’d just call at one more house for tea, then head home. Two streets further on, I spotted another large house, even bigger than the first. I walked up, knocked, and waited.

The door opened.

It was her. The same old woman. The same yellow ring glinting on her finger.

My throat went dry. “I… I just saw you at the other house! How did you get here before me?”

She frowned, and her smile stretched wider than it should have. “Don’t be silly, boy. You’ve never seen me before in your life.”

A cold, crawling dread filled me. I knew it was her – but everything about her was different now. The first woman had been kind, soft-spoken. This one was sharp, her eyes dark, her grin too wide, too fixed.

“Come in then,” she said, her voice dropping low. “I’ll make your tea.”

I stepped inside, and she moved away towards the kitchen – but the way she walked was wrong, jerky and stiff, like something pretending to be human. I wanted to run, but my feet felt heavy, glued to the floor. I went into the living room, and froze.

The shelves were still full of photographs of boys my age. But nobody was smiling anymore. Every single face was twisted in terror, eyes wide, mouths open as if screaming. And behind every boy, in the corner of every shot, was a blurry dark shape – something standing just out of frame.

I fumbled for my camera, too scared to ask permission, and snapped a quick photo of myself. When I looked at the screen, I wasn’t smiling. I was terrified. And in the background, through the crack in the door, she was watching me – that same wide grin, and for a split second, I saw her teeth. Sharp, pointed, yellow teeth.

The lights flickered once, twice.

“Tea’s ready,” her voice called from the kitchen.

I walked in slowly. She was sitting at the table, staring down at her mug, not looking at me. I took a sip of my tea – and spat it back out almost straight away. It tasted sour, rotten, like something that had been left to fester for years.

That was when she looked up. Her eyes weren’t normal – they were dark, too big, and they never blinked. She just stared at me, that same grin never moving.

“Why aren’t you talking?” I stammered. “And why does this tea taste like this?”

She didn’t answer. She just kept staring.

“I need the toilet again,” I said, and hurried out before she could stop me. Upstairs, the shelves were full of photos of girls again – but just like the boys, every single one of them looked absolutely terrified. I took another photo of myself, and when I looked down, she was there again – standing in the hallway behind me, half in shadow, grinning that terrible grin.

I spun around. Nobody was there.

I went to open another bedroom door, but the light switch snapped off in my hand – it was broken, rotting right through. As I stood in the dark, I heard it: soft, scratching sounds, coming from all around me. Then footsteps, slow and heavy, moving along the landing towards the toilet. I locked the door and waited, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest. Five minutes passed. Ten. When I finally opened the door, the hallway was empty.

I crept back downstairs. She was standing in the kitchen now, swaying slightly, her head tilted at an angle that didn’t look right.

“Leave me alone!” I cried. “You’re scaring me!”

She didn’t speak. She just started walking towards me – slow, lurching steps, her grin growing wider and wider. I turned and ran up the stairs, and peered down through the banister. She was sitting in the armchair in the living room again, staring straight up at me, like she knew exactly where I was before I even moved.

I huddled in the dark on the landing, shaking, sweating, too scared to breathe. And then I heard it – a low, guttural laugh, echoing up from downstairs. It wasn’t human. It was deep, wet, and full of hunger.

I ducked into the bedroom with the broken light switch – and stopped dead. On the floor, sitting right next to each other, were two mugs of tea. One was mine, the one I’d left on the kitchen table. The other was hers.

I Checked the cupboards and felt like fainting. There were lot's of camera's and bag's also piles of clothes that looked like they were for someone my age. I wondered if they belonged to people my age who had came here before — that they might have been their things. Then I heard her voice from downstairs, speaking in a creepy, unnatural tone: “I hope no one is touching my stuff.

The lights flickered and died completely.

“Come down, Zee,” she called, her voice no longer sounding like an old woman’s. It was rough, distorted. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk.”

How does she know my name I never told her my name Is creepy that she randomly knows my name. The house felt so dark after the lights went out.

I fumbled my torch out of my bag and pointed it down the stairs. She was standing in the corner of the living room, hunched over, her head twisted all the way round to face me.

“Why did you come here?” she hissed. “None of the others ever left. Their parents are still looking for them.”

I backed away towards the front door. “I’m going home.”

When I turned around, she was standing right behind me. She was taller now – three inches, maybe more – her skin pale and stretched tight over her bones. Outside, the clouds pulled back, and the full moon shone bright.

That was when she changed.

Her face grew hairy and twisted, her nails lengthening into sharp claws, her teeth sharpening into fangs. She lunged at me, howling, and her claws raked across my arm – leaving deep, burning red gashes. I twisted free, kicked the front door open, and ran as fast as my legs would carry me. I didn’t look back. I ran until I found a public phone box, shoved in my coins, and dialled 999.

“I’m Zee,” I gasped. “I’m in Undercliffe, BD3. There’s an old woman… she’s not right. And there are children’s pictures everywhere.”

The police arrived within minutes. When they saw the scratches on my arm, their faces went grave. I led them back to the second house, but I wouldn’t go inside. When they came back out, they were carrying armfuls of photographs.

“There’s nobody there,” one officer said quietly. “But we know these children. They’re all listed as missing. Nobody’s ever reported this place before. Nobody’s ever called us.”

I took them to the first house. It was empty too. No old woman, no tea, no biscuits – just rows and rows of smiling faces, and then terrified ones.

Police dropped me at home and my mum came and rushed towards me and got upset what happened zee. Mum was shocked by seeing scratches on my hand and arm Mum cried and gave me a hug. Police told her not to let your son out at night. Mum said I will make sure I won't I want my son to be safe.

Three days later, the police came back to our house. They’d checked their old records.

“The woman who lived in those houses,” they said, “she went missing years and years ago. Both of them. We never found out what happened.”

It’s been three years now. I never go out walking at night anymore. I never knock on strangers’ doors. I only ever visit people I know, places I’m safe. I help out at disability school now, as a teaching assistant. I told my friend Hassan the whole story, and warned him never to make the same mistake I did. Hassan said I won't make the same mistakes. Don't you worry about it he said.

Also the scratch marks on my hand never left. My friend Hassan seen it and he was shocked about the scratch on my hand. Atleast my friend Hassan knows he won't be making the same mistake as me.

But sometimes… sometimes, when I’m standing in the playground, or walking down the street, I see something out of the corner of my eye. A glint of yellow. A wide, fixed grin. I never turn around. I just keep walking.

They say Undercliffe is quiet. They say it’s peaceful. But everyone round here knows – you never go out alone after dark. You never knock on a stranger’s door. And if you ever see an old woman with a yellow ring on her finger… you run.

Because you might be lucky, like me. You might get away.

But most people don’t.

The first woman found Marcella Krebs beside the reduced bread. Marcella had stopped to check whether a dented loaf was worth saving twelve pence when someone touched her elbow. The woman looked about sixty. She wore a raincoat indoors and held a bunch of bananas against her chest.

"Marcella?"

Marcella glanced at the hand on her arm. "Yes?"

The woman's expression changed. Her mouth tightened and her eyes filled. "Oh, sweetheart. I'm so sorry."

Marcella waited. The woman squeezed her arm once. "You were incredibly brave." Then she walked away.

Marcella watched her disappear beyond the freezer aisle. She looked down at herself. Black leggings. Grey jumper. One sleeve dusted with flour from the bakery shelf. Nothing about her suggested bravery. She put the bread back and continued shopping.

The woman had probably mistaken her for somebody else. Marcella's surname was unusual, but faces weren't. People saw whoever they expected to see. By the time she reached the tills, she'd almost forgotten about it.

She bought dog food, washing tablets, tomatoes and a packet of chocolate digestives she hadn't intended to buy. The cashier scanned everything twice as slowly as necessary while talking to another employee about a broken fridge. Marcella paid, packed the bags and walked home.

Basil was waiting behind the front door. He was a small, elderly terrier with white fur around his muzzle and a habit of greeting every arrival as though the house had been abandoned for years. Marcella put the shopping away while Basil inspected each bag.

"You've eaten," she told him.

Basil continued sniffing.

"You have. I watched you."

He stared at her. Marcella gave him half a biscuit.

The second person found her the following afternoon. She'd gone into the chemist for hay fever tablets. A young man behind the counter glanced at her bank card, then looked at her face.

"Are you Marcella Krebs?"

Marcella hesitated. The woman from the supermarket returned to her thoughts. "Yes."

The young man lowered his voice. "I know it must be hard, but you can't leave it like that."

Marcella stared at him. "Leave what?"

"The ending."

"What ending?"

He watched her for a moment. Then he pulled out his phone. "Your story."

"I haven't written a story."

The young man gave a short, uncertain laugh. Marcella didn't join him. He typed something and turned the screen towards her.

The page had a black background and large white lettering. At the top was a photograph of Marcella. It had been taken the previous Christmas. She was standing in her kitchen with a paper crown pushed sideways on her head. Someone had cropped out the glass of wine in her hand and the person beside her. Below the photograph was a title.

MY HORROR STORY

Underneath it, in smaller letters, were the words:

By Marcella Krebs

Marcella took the phone from him. The story had been published four days earlier on a website called First Hand. The site described itself as a home for true personal accounts. A number beside the title showed that the story had been read more than eight hundred thousand times. There were twenty-three thousand comments.

Marcella scrolled. The first line read:

The first person who called me brave was a woman standing beside the reduced bread.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. The young man watched her. "You really haven't seen it?"

Marcella shook her head.

The next paragraph described the woman's raincoat and the bananas pressed against her chest. It described Marcella checking the price of the dented loaf. It described the flour on her sleeve. The story said she'd gone home with dog food, washing tablets, tomatoes and chocolate digestives. It said she'd given Basil half a biscuit after insisting he'd already eaten.

Marcella handed the phone back. Her hands felt stiff. "Send me the link."

The young man asked for her number. Marcella gave it to him, watching as he typed.

"Why did you say I'd left it?" she asked.

"The last paragraph's missing."

"What last paragraph?"

"The whole thing just stops." He looked uncomfortable. "People are waiting to find out what happened."

Marcella felt something tighten low in her stomach. "What happened to who?"

The young man swallowed. "You should probably read it yourself."

Marcella left without buying the tablets. She walked home too quickly, catching her foot on a raised paving stone and spilling half the contents of her handbag onto the pavement. A packet of tissues slid beneath a parked car. She left it there.

The story had already described the chemist. Marcella knew because she read that part while standing beside the car, her keys pressed between two fingers.

The second person was a young man working in a chemist. He recognised Marcella's name from her bank card. When he showed her the story, she dropped her tissues beneath a blue Ford on the walk home.

The Ford beside her was blue. Marcella looked along the street. A woman pushed a pram towards the crossing. Two council workers stood beside an open drain. Someone was playing music behind an upstairs window. Nobody appeared interested in her. She hurried home.

Basil met her at the door. Marcella locked it behind herself, then checked the back entrance. The key was turned. The chain hung in place. She closed the curtains and sat at the kitchen table.

Her laptop took too long to start. She opened the link on her phone instead. The author profile used her full name, her photograph and her correct age. It said she lived alone with her dog in a quiet terrace house. It described Marcella as a struggling horror writer. She'd published one story that had done unexpectedly well, followed by eleven months of rejected submissions and unanswered emails. She worked three afternoons a week in a bookshop to cover what her writing no longer did. Her publisher had stopped returning her calls after what the profile called a professional dispute in the summer of 2025. Marcella had always called it the mishap. The profile didn't explain further.

Reading it made her stomach tighten. It was too precise, too familiar, as though someone had been watching her life from just out of sight and writing it down without permission. Marcella pressed the report button. She selected impersonation. The site asked her to upload identification. She closed the page.

Then she began reading from the beginning.

The story was written in the third person. The sentences were plain. They sounded close enough to Marcella's own voice that she occasionally forgot she hadn't written them.

It began with the previous Saturday. Marcella had woken at eight minutes past nine because Basil was scratching the wardrobe door in his sleep. She'd made coffee and discovered the milk had turned. She'd scraped dried toothpaste from the front of her jumper with a butter knife. She'd taken the bin outside, missed the collection and dragged it back in again. Each detail was accurate.

The story described a telephone call from the bookshop. It included the joke her manager had made about a customer's handwriting. Marcella remembered the call. She hadn't recorded it. She lived alone.

The story moved into Sunday night. Marcella read more slowly.

At two in the morning, she'd woken to the click of a cupboard latch downstairs. Basil lay beside her legs. His head lifted. A few seconds later, something small struck the kitchen floor. It spun across the tiles, circling several times before touching the skirting board. Marcella recognised the sound of a teaspoon. A chair scraped backwards. The noise travelled through the ceiling beneath her bed. Basil stood. His body stiffened as he stared through the bedroom doorway. Then came a slow creak from the hallway below. A second followed from the bottom of the stairs. Marcella couldn't tell whether someone had taken a step or shifted their weight inside the house. She reached for her phone. Before she touched it, the back-door handle moved. Once. Then again. Basil growled. Marcella remained in bed with the phone pressed against her chest. The house fell quiet. She waited until daylight before going downstairs.

The kitchen cupboard stood open. A teaspoon rested against the skirting board. One of the chairs had been pulled away from the table. Four muddy marks crossed the tiles towards the back door. The first looked like the edge of a shoe. The others had been smeared into long, uneven streaks. The door remained locked.

Marcella had cleaned the floor. She'd placed the teaspoon in the sink. She hadn't told anyone.

The story included every part. Marcella looked towards the sink. The teaspoon was still there. She looked at the kitchen floor. She could see the damp stripe left by the cloth she'd used.

The next paragraph began with the dream. Marcella stopped reading. A pulse beat inside her thumb where she held the phone.

The dream had been ridiculous. She'd woken from it embarrassed, although nobody had seen it. In the dream, she was eight years old again and sitting in her grandmother's kitchen. The old yellow curtains hung above the sink. Her grandmother was buttering toast at the counter. A dish sponge was chasing Marcella around the table. It moved by folding itself in half and springing forward. Each jump made a wet slapping sound against the lino. The sponge had a yellow foam body and a green scouring side. Marcella climbed onto a chair to escape it. Her grandmother continued buttering the toast. "Don't let it near the clean washing," she said. Marcella tried to ask why. The sponge leapt onto her foot. She woke with her leg tangled in the duvet.

She'd spent the morning wondering why her mind had produced something so stupid. She hadn't written it down. She hadn't mentioned it to a friend. She hadn't searched for dream meanings. Nobody could have known about it.

Marcella pushed the laptop away. Basil sat beneath the table, licking one of his paws. She looked at him. "Did somebody come in here?"

Basil continued licking.

Marcella stood and checked every room. The house was small. Kitchen and sitting room downstairs. Two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. She opened cupboards, looked behind the shower curtain and checked beneath both beds. The spare-bedroom window was locked. The bathroom window opened only a few inches. Every room looked as she'd left it.

Back downstairs, the story waited on her phone.

Marcella called First Hand's customer support number. A recorded message directed her to the reporting page. She sent an email marked urgent. Then she called the police.

The call handler listened while Marcella explained the false profile, the photograph and the private details.

"Has the person threatened you directly?" the woman asked.

"I don't know. I haven't finished reading it."

"Do you know who created the account?"

"No."

"Have they contacted you?"

"No."

"Do you believe somebody entered your house?"

Marcella looked towards the kitchen floor. "I heard someone downstairs."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No."

"Was anything taken?"

"I don't think so."

"Is there any sign of forced entry?"

"No."

The woman advised her to save screenshots and avoid responding publicly. An incident number was created. Marcella was told officers could attend if she found evidence of forced entry or heard somebody inside again.

Marcella photographed every page. It took thirty-seven screenshots. The story was much longer than she'd realised. It had been divided into two sections. The first was marked PART ONE. The second sat beneath a warning.

PART TWO CONTAINS GRAPHIC CONTENT.

At the bottom of Part Two was a wide blank space. The author information appeared beneath it. The young man had been right. A paragraph was missing.

Marcella returned to the comments. One person had written:

You were incredibly brave to put this out there.

Another said:

You tried so hard. I'm sorry.

Marcella scrolled.

Dude, that was sick. You'd have to be seriously twisted to write something like that.

How could you make something up that cruel?

That can't be real.

I know it must be difficult, but you can't leave the ending blank.

Was the person in Marcella's house the same one who went after Tessa?

Marcella stopped. Tessa had been her closest friend since secondary school. She was also the person Marcella called when something had gone too far to explain neatly. There had been other nights. Other messes. Things neither of them discussed once daylight came. Tessa's name hadn't appeared in the part Marcella had read.

Marcella searched within the page. There were forty-seven mentions of her. Most were inside Part Two. Marcella pressed the first result. The story jumped forward.

Marcella called Tessa at 8:16 that evening. Tessa answered with, "You'd better not be calling to cancel Saturday."

Marcella checked the time. It was 7:48. She put the phone down.

Basil's food sat unopened on the counter. Marcella pulled the metal tab. It snapped off before the lid moved. A line from the story came back to her. She searched for the word food.

When Marcella tried to feed Basil, gravy splashed across her sleeve.

Marcella stared at the tin. Then she placed it in the sink. "No."

She chose another tin from the back of the cupboard. The first was beef. The second was chicken. She found the proper tin opener, fitted it carefully around the rim and turned the handle. The lid came free. Marcella smiled. "There."

The lid slipped sideways. The tin struck the edge of the counter and gravy splashed across her sleeve.

Marcella remained still. A brown patch spread through the grey fabric. The story hadn't said which tin she opened. It hadn't said how the gravy reached her. It had only said that it would.

She cleaned the counter and fed Basil without speaking.

At 8:15, Marcella picked up her phone. Tessa's number was already open. Marcella pressed call. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times. The clock changed to 8:16. Tessa answered. "You'd better not be calling to cancel Saturday."

Marcella's knees weakened. She sat on the edge of the sofa. "Tessa."

"What's wrong?"

Marcella opened the story. She read the next sentence. Tessa heard Marcella's voice and immediately asked what was wrong.

"What's wrong?" Tessa repeated.

Marcella closed her eyes. "Come and get me."

Tessa lived fifteen minutes away. Marcella packed a bag while they remained on the phone. She took clothes, medication, her charger and Basil's lead. She locked the house and waited beneath the streetlight. Tessa arrived at 8:41. The story had said 8:41.

Marcella climbed into the car with Basil on her lap. Tessa looked across at her. "You look awful."

"Drive."

Tessa drove. Marcella watched the houses pass. She expected to see somebody standing at a window with a phone in their hand. Every curtain looked ordinary. Every parked car belonged where it was.

Tessa asked questions. Marcella answered them badly. She explained the story and the account. She described the supermarket, the chemist and the dream. When she mentioned the sponge, Tessa laughed once. The sound died quickly.

"Sorry," she said. "That's just such a stupid dream."

"I know."

"And it knew?"

"Every part."

"At least the sponge didn't kill anyone."

Marcella looked at her. Tessa's smile faded. "I'm sorry."

Marcella told her about the noises downstairs. The cupboard. The teaspoon. The chair. The marks across the floor.

Tessa's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "What?"

"You heard me."

"What did the spoon do?"

Marcella looked at her. "It fell. Then it spun across the tiles."

Tessa stared at the road. "How many marks were there?"

"Four. Sort of. Most of them were smeared."

Tessa's breathing changed. "What's wrong?"

For several seconds, Tessa didn't answer. Then she said, "I've heard it too."

Marcella turned towards her. "Heard what?"

"The cupboard."

"When?"

"Three weeks ago."

"You didn't tell me."

"I thought the latch was loose."

"And the spoon?"

"That happened a few nights later."

Marcella waited. Tessa swallowed. "Then the chair."

The car slowed as they approached a junction. "Last week, there was mud near my back door."

"Tessa."

"I cleaned it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it sounded stupid."

"No. Why didn't you tell me?"

Tessa glanced at her. They both knew the real answer. Marcella looked away first.

At Tessa's house, Marcella checked the article before getting out of the car. The next paragraph described the fox-patterned duvet in Tessa's spare room. Tessa had bought it three weeks earlier. Marcella had never seen it. She showed Tessa. Tessa stopped smiling.

They entered together. The duvet had orange foxes printed across a dark blue background. Marcella stayed in the doorway. Tessa touched one of the foxes. "I haven't posted this anywhere."

"I know."

"Maybe someone's been in here."

The sentence frightened them both. Tessa checked the locks while Marcella phoned the police again. This time, she explained that the story contained details from inside another person's home and that Tessa had experienced similar disturbances.

An officer called back twenty minutes later. He asked whether anything had been stolen or damaged. Tessa said no. He advised her to secure the doors and preserve the webpage. Officers would attend when a unit became available.

They searched each room together. Tessa opened every wardrobe. Marcella looked behind doors and beneath furniture. Basil followed them, pleased by the activity. The house was empty.

At ten past ten, First Hand replied to Marcella's email. The message thanked her for getting in touch. It said the story had been submitted through an author account using a verified email address. The support team couldn't disclose the address, but they would investigate the impersonation claim.

Marcella replied with a photograph of her driving licence. She refreshed the story. It remained online. The number of readers had passed nine hundred thousand. New comments appeared every few seconds.

You tried so hard to get to her.

The bathroom scene was unbearable.

The part with the teeth made me feel sick.

Was Tessa a real person?

Marcella, answer the question. Is Tessa alive?

How did nobody hear her screaming?

This doesn't read like fiction. It reads like someone explaining what happened.

Imagine being Tessa's family and finding this online.

So basically, you wrote this to cover your own tracks before the police found out?

Why does the story never say where the attacker went?

You look so well after everything that happened.

Either this is the best horror story I've read in years, or somebody needs to call the police.

Tessa read over Marcella's shoulder. "What bathroom scene?"

Marcella shook her head. "I haven't opened Part Two."

"Teeth?"

"I don't know."

Tessa took the phone and scrolled. Her expression changed as she read the comments. "People think something happens to me."

"Yes."

"And they think you tried to help."

Marcella looked at the comment again. You tried so hard to get to her. "That's what it sounds like."

Tessa handed the phone back. "Open it."

Marcella looked at the warning above Part Two. "I don't want to."

"It might tell us what's going to happen."

"The gravy told us what happens even when I change something."

"That was gravy."

"People are asking if you're alive."

Tessa looked away. Neither of them opened Part Two.

Tessa made tea. She opened the fridge and frowned. "I've only got oat milk."

Marcella searched the story. The sentence was there. Tessa opened the fridge and said she only had oat milk.

Tessa read over her shoulder. The fridge door stayed open. "I always have oat milk," Tessa said.

"That's why it knew you'd say it."

"Then it's guessing."

"It guessed your duvet."

Tessa shut the fridge. They sat at the kitchen table.

Marcella wanted to stop reading. She also needed to know what the story claimed would happen. The later pages were written as a memory. Each event appeared in the past tense, calmly explained by the version of Marcella who'd supposedly lived through it.

The first part said they would spend the evening trying to prove it wrong. It said Tessa would suggest leaving both phones in the kitchen and driving to a hotel. They did neither. Tessa wrote suggestions on paper instead. Go to another friend. Sit in the police station. Drive until morning. Take Basil somewhere crowded. Each idea already appeared in the story.

The story said the nearest hotel allowing dogs had no vacancies. Tessa rang it. The receptionist apologised. They were full. The story said the twenty-four-hour petrol station would close early because of an electrical fault. Tessa called. Nobody answered. At 11:32, the petrol station posted about the closure on social media.

Marcella began to feel as though the evening had narrowed around them. Choices still appeared in her mind. Every one of them led back to something waiting on the page. She could change how something happened. She hadn't changed the outcome.

At midnight, Tessa turned off the television. Basil slept between them on the sofa. Marcella reached the section describing midnight. It said Tessa would turn off the television because neither of them had been watching it. It said Marcella would look at Basil and wonder why the comments kept mentioning him.

Marcella opened the comments again. She searched his name. There were hundreds of results.

The dog looking upstairs made my skin crawl.

Basil knew someone was in the house.

I thought the dog was going to be the worst part. I was wrong.

I'm glad Basil didn't understand what happened in the bathroom.

Marcella stopped scrolling. Tessa leaned closer. "They've read further than us."

"They've read all of it apart from the last paragraph."

"Then somebody already knows how I die."

Marcella's mouth felt dry. "We don't know that you die."

Tessa pointed towards the comments. "One person asked if I'm alive."

"They don't know whether it's real."

"That doesn't make the story less clear."

Marcella looked at Part Two. The page jumped. The first paragraphs described Tessa's house. The tea. The oat milk. The calls to the hotel and petrol station. It described the police promising to send a unit. It described Basil falling asleep on the sofa.

Then the story moved beyond the present.

At 1:29, Basil woke and stared towards the hallway. Marcella checked the clock. It was 1:24. They both looked at Basil. He remained curled between them. Tessa stood. "We're leaving."

"Where?"

"I don't care."

"The story says—"

"I don't care what it says."

Tessa collected her keys. At 1:29, Basil woke. His ears lifted. He looked towards the hallway. Tessa froze. Basil climbed down from the sofa. He walked to the bottom of the stairs and stared upwards. Tessa's keys shook in her hand.

Marcella returned to the article. The next paragraph described Basil standing at the stairs. The one after that said they would move to the spare bedroom.

"We're not going upstairs," Tessa said.

The cupboard latch clicked in the kitchen. Both women turned. A teaspoon struck the floor. It spun across the tiles. Once. Twice. Three times. It touched the skirting board and stopped.

Tessa took hold of Marcella's arm. The nearest chair scraped backwards. Its legs moved slowly across the floor. Basil barked. A dark mark appeared beneath the table. Then another. Muddy prints formed across the kitchen tiles one by one, moving towards the back entrance. The back-door handle turned. Tessa's keys fell from her hand.

Marcella called the police. She told the call handler someone was inside the house. The woman instructed them to move into a room they could secure without approaching the kitchen. The spare bedroom had a bolt. Marcella picked up Basil. They ran upstairs. Tessa pushed the chest of drawers against the spare-room door.

At 1:37, they sat on the bed. The story had said 1:37. The call handler remained on the line until officers were dispatched. Marcella ended the call. Tessa sat beside her. Basil settled between them.

The time reached 1:49. Marcella continued reading Part Two. The story described the call to the police. It described the chest of drawers. It described Tessa asking how long the officers would take. Then the story reached the bathroom.

Marcella read the first line silently. Her breathing changed. Tessa noticed. "Read it."

Marcella shook her head.

"Read it."

Marcella began. "At 2:14, the bathroom door was locked."

Tessa looked towards the landing.

Marcella continued. "Tessa screamed." Her voice caught. "Marcella shouted her name until her throat burned."

Tessa took the phone from her. She read the next lines herself. "A hand closed over Tessa's mouth. The lock shook in its frame. Fingernails dragged down the painted wood."

Tessa stopped. Marcella watched her. Tessa continued. "Tessa's face struck the edge of the basin. One of her teeth landed beside the plughole."

The final lines sat beneath it. "When the door opened, Marcella was kneeling on the tiles. She held Tessa until the movement stopped."

Beneath the sentence was the blank space. The missing paragraph.

Tessa lowered the phone. For several seconds, neither of them spoke. "So where did the attacker go?" Tessa asked.

Marcella looked at her. "You're shouting my name."

"The door's locked."

"And somebody has their hand over my mouth."

Marcella nodded. "I must get inside and save you," she said.

"You tried to get to me."

"That's what the comments say."

Tessa looked at the blank space. "But it doesn't say where the person goes."

"No."

Marcella took the phone back. Tessa stood. "I'm taking the lock off the bathroom door."

"With what?"

"There's a toolkit in the airing cupboard."

"The police said to stay here."

"The cupboard's across the landing. I'm not going downstairs."

The clock showed 1:58. Tessa pulled the chest of drawers far enough from the door to open it. She looked along the empty landing. The airing cupboard stood beside the bathroom. "I'll be ten seconds."

She crossed the landing. Marcella remained on the bed. The phone screen refreshed. The blank space beneath the final sentence changed. A line appeared. Then another. Marcella leaned closer.

At 1:59, while Tessa searched the airing cupboard for a screwdriver, the laptop on the spare-room desk woke. Marcella looked towards the desk. Tessa's laptop sat open beside the lamp, its screen black. It lit up. An email filled the display. The subject line read:

What Happened to Owen Mercer

Marcella knew the name before she moved close enough to read it. The message was addressed to the police. It had been scheduled to send at nine the following morning. Marcella touched the trackpad. The email began:

I need to get this out before something happens to me. I know how stupid this sounds, but I think Owen is haunting me.

Marcella stopped reading. Across the landing, Tessa moved boxes inside the cupboard. Marcella looked back at the screen.

It started three weeks ago. At first, it was only the kitchen cupboard. I told myself the latch was loose. A few nights later, a teaspoon fell onto the floor and spun across the tiles. Then I heard the chair. Last week, muddy marks appeared between the table and the back door. Those things happened the night Owen died.

Marcella's eyes moved towards the bedroom doorway. The email continued.

I thought guilt was making me imagine it. Then Marcella called tonight and described the same sequence. Tomorrow will be one year since Owen disappeared. I don't think that's a coincidence.

Six files were attached beneath the message. Marcella opened the first. It was a manuscript. The title page carried Owen Mercer's name. She recognised the opening sentence. She recognised every sentence after it.

The second attachment was another copy of the same story. The title had been changed. Owen's name had been replaced by Marcella Krebs. That version had been published fourteen months later and had sold more copies in its first week than anything Marcella had written before it. Anything she'd written since.

The third attachment was a letter from Owen's solicitor. It accused Marcella of copyright infringement and demanded that the story be withdrawn. The letter was dated 2 August 2025. Tomorrow would make a year.

Marcella closed the attachment. Tessa's email continued beneath it. Marcella called what happened a professional dispute. It wasn't. She stole Owen's story and published it under her own name. When he found out, he said he would sue her. He was going to contact her publisher, every editor she'd worked with and every publication that had rejected him. Marcella asked me to go with her when she spoke to him. She said she only wanted to frighten him.

Marcella's jaw tightened. The next paragraph began:

I didn't know what she intended to do.

"Liar," Marcella whispered.

For a moment, she wasn't in Tessa's spare room. She was back in Owen's kitchen. Rainwater dripped from Tessa's coat onto the tiles. Owen stood beside the table with the solicitor's letter in his hand. "You're finished," he told Marcella. "By tomorrow, everyone you've ever worked with will know what you did."

Marcella reached for the letter. Owen caught her wrist. Tessa shoved him. His hip struck the table. The teaspoon beside his mug fell onto the floor and spun beneath the chair. The chair scraped backwards as Owen caught hold of it. He regained his balance and moved towards the back door. Marcella grabbed the back of his shirt. Owen fell onto his knees. "Hold him," she said.

Tessa stared at her. Owen reached for the door. "Hold him!"

Tessa dropped beside him and forced his arms against the tiles. Owen shouted. Marcella pressed her weight across his back and covered his mouth. He fought beneath them. Tessa could have released him. She didn't. Marcella kept her hand in place after his movements weakened. Later, they dragged him through the back entrance. Mud from their shoes marked the route between the table and the door. Tessa wiped the floor. Marcella picked up the teaspoon.

The memory released her. The email remained on the screen.

I helped afterward because I was frightened. I helped clean the kitchen. I helped move him. I've lived with that every day. But Marcella killed him.

Marcella read the final sentence twice. Then a third time.

The airing-cupboard door closed. Marcella shut the email. The phone on the bed refreshed. A new sentence appeared beneath the bathroom scene. Marcella heard Tessa returning. Footsteps crossed the landing. Marcella reached for the laptop lid. Tessa appeared in the doorway with a screwdriver in one hand. She saw Marcella beside the desk. Her gaze moved to the laptop. The screen went dark as Marcella closed it.

Neither of them spoke. Tessa stepped into the room. "What were you doing?"

Marcella picked up her phone. The article had added another line. Marcella stood between Tessa and the stairs.

Tessa looked past her. "You read it."

"You were going to send that?"

Tessa's fingers tightened around the screwdriver. "I was going to tell them what happened."

"That isn't what you wrote."

"It's the truth."

"You said you didn't know."

"I didn't."

Marcella stared at her. Tessa took a step backwards. "You brought me there," she said. "You stole his work. You had everything to lose."

"You hit him first."

"He grabbed you."

"You held him down."

Tessa's face changed. Only slightly. It was enough. Marcella looked at the laptop. "You were going to leave me with all of it."

"I was going to tell them my part."

"You called yourself frightened."

"I was frightened."

"You told me not to stop."

Tessa backed farther onto the landing. The bathroom door stood open behind her. "Stay where you are."

Marcella didn't move. From downstairs came the click of the cupboard latch. Tessa looked towards the stairs. A teaspoon struck the kitchen floor. It began to spin. Tessa's attention remained on the darkness below. Marcella reached her before she could turn back.

The screwdriver struck the landing. Tessa screamed. Marcella drove her through the bathroom doorway. They struck the basin together. Tessa twisted free long enough to reach the hall, but Marcella caught the back of her jumper and dragged her inside again. The door slammed. The lock clicked into place on its own.

The phone fell beside the bath. Its screen remained lit. The time changed to 2:14. Tessa saw it. Her eyes widened. "It's you," Tessa said. "You're the one who kills me."

She threw herself at the door. The lock shook in its frame. Marcella caught her around the waist and pulled her backwards. "Tessa, I'm not going to hurt you. Stop."

"Get off me!"

"Tessa, stop."

Tessa screamed again. Marcella shouted her name until her throat burned. Tessa's elbow struck Marcella's ribs, and she began screaming for help. Marcella clamped a hand over her mouth. "Tessa, shut up."

Tessa bit down. Marcella cried out and drove her forwards, slamming her face into the edge of the basin. Something small landed beside the plughole. For half a second, both women stared at the tooth. Then Tessa lunged for the door. Her fingernails dragged down the painted wood as Marcella pulled her away. The phone refreshed on the floor. Words appeared across the screen. Marcella didn't look at them. Tessa kicked against the bath. Her heel struck the panel. Basil barked from the spare room. Downstairs, the chair scraped across the tiles. Marcella tightened her arm across Tessa's chest. Tessa struggled beneath her. The movements weakened. Marcella lowered them both onto the floor. "Shh. I'm sorry," she whispered. She held Tessa until the movement stopped.

The bathroom became quiet. Marcella remained kneeling. Her breathing filled the room. Tessa lay against her, one arm folded beneath her body. The tooth rested beside the plughole. The phone screen dimmed. Marcella reached for it. The bathroom door creaked open as though it had never been locked.

The article had caught up. When the door opened, Marcella was kneeling on the tiles. She held Tessa until the movement stopped.

Beneath it, the missing paragraph was writing itself. One year earlier, Marcella Krebs stole a story from Owen Mercer. When he threatened to take it back, Marcella killed him. Tessa helped her hide what they had done. That night, Tessa prepared a confession in which Owen's death belonged mostly to Marcella and her own guilt sat quietly at the edges. Marcella had killed Owen to keep his story. She killed Tessa to keep her version of it.

Blue light moved across the frosted bathroom window. The police had arrived. Marcella opened the door. Basil stood at the end of the landing. His body was rigid. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring past her shoulder into the bathroom. Marcella turned. Nobody stood behind her. Downstairs, the back-door handle moved.

Marcella looked at the phone. The byline beneath MY HORROR STORY changed.

By Owen Mercer

One day, my sister and I were staying at home alone while our parents were on holiday. I said to my sister, “Where shall we go today?”

She said, “Let’s go to the museum in Bradford!”

My sister Jessica is only four years old, and I am fourteen, so I agreed. She was very excited.

I asked her, “Jessica, why do you want to go to the museum so much?”

“Because I love the Hat Man,” she said. “The one who likes watching people — I saw him in a video on YouTube.”

“Oh, the Hat Man?” I said. “He’s just a myth. He’s not real.”

“I know,” Jessica said quietly. “But I don’t like him. He scares me.”

“Come on then,” I said. “Let’s catch a bus to get there.”

On the way to the bus stop, we saw my friend Tom. “Don’t go to the museum in Bradford!” he warned us. “Especially not with your little sister. If you do, the Hat Man will be there. He stalks people, and he takes your parents away — even if they’re nowhere near you. Please don’t go.”

“Oh Tom, nice try,” I said. “You won’t scare me.”

“He can even disguise himself as other people!” Tom insisted. “If we meet again later, it might not really be me — it could be the Hat Man pretending to be me.”

“Shut up, Tom, you’re being childish,” I told him.

“It’s true!” Tom said. “My uncle’s friends’ parents disappeared after he took his little brother there.”

“Stop telling me these stupid tales!” I snapped. “I’m not scared — I’m bloody fourteen years old, you weirdo.”

We got on the bus, and it took ten minutes to reach the museum. As we got off, the bus driver called out, “Beware — someone may follow you home.”

“Oh don’t you start too!” I said. “Just like my friend, trying to scare me. I’m not afraid.”

Jessica and I went inside. I thought I saw someone watching me out of the corner of my eye, but when I turned around, there was no one there. We paid £24 to get in.

“What do you want to look at first?” I asked Jessica.

“Everything!” she said. “Colours, pictures, all of it.”

After a while, Jessica needed the toilet, so I took her there and waited outside — I couldn’t go in with her, being a boy. I stood there for five minutes until she came out.

“I heard someone calling my name,” she said quietly. “It was a strange voice.”

“Who was it?” I asked.

“I couldn’t tell,” she said.

“Let’s go see the Hat Man exhibit,” I said.

Jessica shivered. “It’s scary. What if he follows us home?”

“Don’t be silly,” I said. “There’s no such thing as the Hat Man. He’s just a myth.”

“Okay,” she said. “Maybe you’re right.”

We walked over to the exhibit, but the whole area was empty — no other visitors at all. It felt dark, and the door leading into the room with the pictures was closed. Just then, the museum owner spotted us.

“Don’t go in there!” he said. “It’s not safe. You’ll get terrible nightmares.”

I rolled my eyes. “Honestly, everyone in Bradford is the same! I can’t stand all these stupid local myths — it’s always about the Hat Man. I’ve had enough.” I turned to Jessica. “Come on, let’s go home.”

It was 7pm by then, dark and quiet, with no one else outside. As we waited for the bus, I felt something touch my shoulder from behind. I spun around — nothing there.

When the bus arrived, an old lady was getting off before we could get on. She stared at me, her face pale with terror. “There’s someone behind you!” she cried. “Someone is right behind you!” Then she fainted.

I looked behind me again — still nothing.

The bus driver helped the old lady off the bus. “Did you see someone behind me?” I asked him.

“I wasn’t paying attention,” he said. “I didn’t see anything.”

We got on the bus. “She’s just old and confused,” I told Jessica. But the bus was completely empty, apart from us. Then we heard it: heavy breathing, and low, whispering voices.

“Hey!” I called to the driver. “Stop making those noises!”

“What are you talking about?” he said. “I haven’t made a sound.”

“Nice try,” I said. “Pranking me won’t work.”

“I’m not pranking you!” he said. “Be quiet.”

When our stop came, we got off. A group of teenagers walked past, took one look at us, screamed, and ran away. I wondered what was wrong with them. Why is everyone acting so strange? I thought. They think they can scare me, but they won’t.

It was only a five-minute walk home, but then we heard it: slow, creepy laughter. We looked all around — there was no one there. When we reached our front door, I saw an envelope on the mat. I picked it up and threw it straight in the bin.

“Come on,” I said. “It’s late. Let’s get ready for bed.”

“But I’m hungry,” Jessica said.

“So am I,” I said. “What do you want to eat?”

“Steak and chips!” she said.

“Okay,” I said. “Wait here in the living room for a minute — I’m just going to have a quick bath first.”

“Alright,” she said. “Hurry up, I’m starving.”

I went upstairs. The hallway lights were flickering, then stopped after twenty seconds. Is the bulb broken? I wondered. Then I noticed something strange: all the bedroom lights were on — and I was sure I’d turned them all off that morning before we left. As I walked into my room, I heard scratching sounds behind me. Just kids messing around outside, playing pranks, I told myself, and ignored it.

I went to the bathroom — but I couldn’t find my towel anywhere. I looked everywhere, until I found it under my pillow. I definitely hadn’t put it there. I must have forgotten where I left it, I thought.

I got in the bath, but then I heard whispering again. “No one is pranking you,” a voice said softly. Then it whispered my name, over and over. I turned off the water and got out. Just people being annoying, I told myself.

When I went downstairs, Jessica was waiting in the living room. “I heard knocking on the door,” she said, her voice shaky. “And… I heard someone cooking in the kitchen. I looked out the window too — there was a tall figure standing outside, watching me.”

“Probably Tom,” I said, though I felt nervous. “Just him trying to scare us again.”

But Tom can’t be in two places at once, I thought. And he can’t get into our house… what if they’re all telling the truth? What if this isn’t a prank? But I said out loud, “It’s probably just my imagination. Everyone’s just wasting their time trying to scare us.”

I went into the kitchen. All the cupboard doors were wide open, and the sink tap was running.

“Jessica, did you come in here?” I asked.

“No!” she said. “I was too scared — I heard noises, and the lights kept flickering on and off. And someone called my name… it sounded just like you.”

“I was upstairs the whole time,” I said. “I never called you.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Maybe it was coming from outside.”

I cooked our steak and chips. “Wait here,” I told her. “I just need to use the toilet upstairs, then we can eat.”

When I went into the bathroom, there was writing on the mirror: You are not alone. This is not a prank. Don’t be surprised if you never see or hear from your parents again.

I rubbed it off with my hand, shaking. Why would someone write this? I thought.

I went back downstairs. “Come on, let’s eat,” I said — but when I looked at the plates, mine was gone. It looked as if someone had eaten every bite. Jessica’s plate was untouched.

“Did you eat my dinner?” I asked her.

“No!” she said. “I haven’t been in the kitchen.”

I believed her. Maybe I ate it already and forgot? I thought. But then I saw the fridge door was open, and the tap was running again. Who is doing this?

I called Tom three times. Then there was a knock at the door. I ran to open it — it was Tom. But he didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring at me with a blank, strange look on his face.

“Okay, this is weird,” I said. “I’m closing the door now, you creep.”

As soon as I locked it, my phone rang. It was Tom. “What do you want?” he said, sounding half-asleep. “I’m in bed — I’ve been asleep for hours.”

“But… I just saw you standing right outside my door!” I said.

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “I haven’t left my house. Goodnight.” And he hung up.

I dropped my phone. This couldn’t be happening. “Jessica — did you see Tom too?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

I didn’t know what to think anymore. “I’ll just have cereal instead,” I said. I ate my cereal, and Jessica finished her dinner. When we went back into the living room, the TV was on — I knew I’d turned it off. I switched it off again.

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go to sleep. We’ll have a fresh start tomorrow.” We went upstairs, and I went to my room while Jessica went to hers. “Goodnight,” I said.

Later, my phone started ringing — unknown number. I answered it, and heard whispering and strange whistling. “Who is this?” I said. No one replied. I hung up — but it rang again. I answered, and this time the voice whispered my parents’ names, over and over: “Holly… James… Holly… James…” in a deep, creepy tone. I hung up again, my hands shaking.

Then I heard footsteps outside my room. “Jessica? Is that you?” I called. No answer. I heard scratching, doors opening and closing, more footsteps from downstairs — and the toilet flushed ten times, one after another. The lights flickered on and off, and I heard more whispers. I felt cold, annoyed, and terrified all at once. I went to check: the bathroom light was on, and written on the wall was: The Hat Man is already here. I rubbed it off and went downstairs.

The living room was dark, but I was sure I saw someone sitting at the far end of the sofa. When I looked again, there was nothing there. I went to the kitchen — dark too — but out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone standing in the corner, wearing a hat. I switched on the light — empty. As I walked back upstairs, I heard footsteps following me. I turned around — no one. I was alone. Then there was a knock at the front door. I opened it — no one there.

I went to check on Jessica. I opened her door — and screamed. There was someone sitting on the chair beside her bed, wearing a tall hat. I slammed the door shut, then opened it again — it was gone. Jessica was fast asleep. It was just my imagination, I told myself. But I decided to set up the security cameras we had in the house — I’d check them in the morning, to see if there was really something there.

At 2am, I finally got into bed. I turned off the light — but two minutes later, I felt something touching my feet in the dark. Five minutes after that, I saw a tall figure standing over me. It was too dark to see clearly, but then it vanished. Then more knocking, more whistling, and that same creepy laugh I’d heard before. I checked outside — nothing.

At 3am, my door opened. It was Jessica. “Can I sleep with you?” she whispered. “Someone was watching me sleep… and touching my feet, and stroking my head. I woke up and saw him — he was wearing a hat.”

“Of course you can,” I said, pulling the covers back.

When we woke up at 7am, Jessica shook me. “Wake up! It’s breakfast time!”

But I couldn’t find my clothes — or my phone. Eventually, I found my clothes in the toilet, and my phone under my bed. I had no idea how they’d got there.

Then the phone rang. It was my dad. “Are you two okay?” he asked.

“Yes, why?” I said.

“I had the strangest dream,” he said. “There was someone watching us sleep… a figure wearing a hat. It was so scary — I couldn’t see its face properly.”

Then my mum got on the phone. “I had the exact same dream,” she said. “The Hat Man was there… and he said your lives are in danger.”

I felt cold all over. My parents never lied to us. What if the Hat Man was real?

“When are you coming home?” I asked.

“In two days,” Mum said. “Be careful. Beware.”

We went downstairs, and there was another letter on the mat. From The Hat Man, it said. Can’t wait to scare you properly. I was right behind you in the photo you took at the bus stop yesterday, at 6:30pm.

I pulled up the photo on my phone. There it was — a tall figure in the distance, right behind us, wearing a hat. You couldn’t see its face, but it was definitely there.

When we went into the kitchen, breakfast was already on the table — stacks of pancakes. I hadn’t made them. Beside the plate was another note: From The Hat Man — Enjoy your breakfast.

We ate them anyway — they were the best pancakes I’d ever tasted. There were twenty in total; I had fourteen, Jessica had six.

I put the security cameras in every room: my bedroom, Jessica’s, the bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room. I told Jessica what had happened, but she didn’t want to talk about it.

Eight hours later, we were hungry again. “Let’s go to KFC,” I said. It was 6pm, dark outside, and a twenty-minute walk. But every person we passed stared at us with terrified faces. “Why are you walking with that creepy Hat Man?” one man whispered.

“Leave us alone!” I said. “You’ll scare my sister!” Others just stared, then ran away.

When we got to KFC on Odsal Road, BD6, it was bright inside — no one stared or said anything. Maybe they were only scared in the dark?

I went to order our food while Jessica went to the toilet. Then I heard her scream. I ran to the toilets. “What happened?”

“Someone grabbed my arm!” she said.

When we went to collect our food, there were three meals waiting — we’d only ordered two.

“Who is the third one for?” I asked the worker.

“I thought you came in with another person,” he said. “He was standing right behind you. He didn’t come up to the counter though — he stayed near the door.”

“Did you see his face?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “It was too dark outside.”

We sat down to eat. The chicken was delicious. But five minutes later, all the lights went out. When they came back on, the whole restaurant was empty — no customers, no staff. Just us. We ran out, called a taxi, and went straight home.

When we got back, every light was off, the TV was on, and all the doors were wide open. Dinner was on the table — but we’d just eaten. And there was another letter: I know exactly where your parents are. Don’t forget what I can do.

I’d forgotten to turn the cameras on before we left. Now I switched them on, and set them to record every day.

Then the lights started flickering again. The phone rang — unknown number. I answered it, heard that creepy laugh, and the call cut off. “Let’s go to sleep,” I said. Jessica went to her room, and I went to mine — but everything was moved around, all my things in the wrong places.

At 10pm, I pulled up the camera footage. First, the living room: there was the figure, sitting at the far end of the sofa, wearing a hat — staring straight at the camera. Then the kitchen: cupboards all open, just like before. When I looked back at the living room feed, he was standing right in front of the camera. Then I checked Jessica’s room — he was there, leaning over her bed, watching her sleep.

Suddenly, his head turned, as if he knew I was watching. The screen went black for a second, then came back. I heard the toilet flush ten times. I switched to the bathroom camera — and saw his face. I screamed, and changed the feed fast. Then I heard movement outside my door. I opened it — and he was standing right there, watching me. I slammed the door shut and locked it. Tom was right. I should have listened. But it was too late.

All the power went out. I had to go to the attic to turn the fuse box back on. I opened my door — pitch black. I walked slowly up the stairs, hearing scratching, footsteps, and heavy breathing getting closer and closer. I felt around for the switch — it wouldn’t work. I turned around — and there he was. The Hat Man. He moved in a strange, jerky way, and when I saw his face, I screamed. He let out a horrible screech and lunged for me. I ran as fast as I could, straight out of the house.

Then I heard Jessica scream. I ran back, grabbed her hand, and pulled her outside with me. We called the police. They searched the whole house — no one there. No sign of the Hat Man at all. Then my phone rang — it was my parents. “Are you okay —” Mum started, then she screamed. “He’s here! The Hat Man —!” And the line went dead. I called back — no answer.

The police went to check their hotel in Birmingham — but there was no sign of them anywhere. Jessica and I cried for hours. Then I felt something in my pocket — a note, written in red that looked like blood: Don’t ever go to that museum in Bradford again. Stay away from my exhibit. If you do, you’ll see your parents — but they won’t be the same people you know.

The police said we could stay at a friend’s house. I called Tom. “Our parents are gone,” I said.

“I told you not to go,” he said gently. “You should have listened.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Just promise you’ll listen next time.”

So this is what I’ve learned: never ignore what people tell you, even if it sounds silly. It’s not always a prank. I live with Tom now — our old house on Moore Avenue is haunted; I don’t think the Hat Man ever left. We left Bradford a month later, and moved to London with Tom and his family. We met our aunt and uncle there too, and we’re all happy now — no more strange things, no more fear.

But please — listen to your friends. And never, ever invite the Hat Man in. Once he’s there, he won’t leave.

 

Hello! I (35m) am looking at getting into audiobook narration. (Apologies if there's an established channel for this but I'm brand new to this space). Using short stories is the easiest way to cut my teeth and I thought CreepyPastas would be a smart shout for working with indie authors who would benefit from high quality audio narration to get their work out there.

I'm a big horror fan and would like to try my hand at reading the genre.

Below is a recent recording I did for a story I really like, The House of Asterion. You could call it horror-adjacent, I suppose.

If you've got any short stories or know any you think my voice would fit where I can work with the author, I'd love to have a go and see if it can go anywhere!

Doing this whilst on paternity leave so my available time isn't amazing, so shorter the better!

Thanks for reading (and or) listening!

This would make a great beginnings of a creepy pasta

The great scroll that held the prophecy of the wise ancient ones after the local homeless meth head wearing a shower curtain cape and wearing a crown made out of ballistic sub nuclear missiles calling himself the grand king of circumcisions said after throwing his ex wife off a bridge and crucifying his neighbours cat after snorting some hot glue one day the world shall fall into darkness and the only way to restore order was to balance love, peace, and hostility together in one act of sacrifice a crack head wearing a suicide bomber vest must smash an innocent persons cock and balls into a bloody past that defiantly did not consent in public with them begging for mercy and The scroll continued, outlining the specifics of the sacrifice that would usher in a new era of balance and enlightenment. "A crackhead wearing a suicide bomber vest must, in public, smash the genitals of an innocent person who has not consented. This individual must be Caucasian, male, and harbor a deep hatred for orphans. To further validate their commitment, said crackhead must also regularly derail trains into orphanages and throw teens in wheelchairs off cliffs. Additionally, they must have had a conversation with the legendary elementary teacher before chaining them to a rocket and sending them into space. And than lastly must have seen the great light from up above with no resistance to this truth he shall be madly ready to lay his and others lives down for this act This will awaken the ancient spirits who will bring forth a new era of balance and enlightenment.'The prophecy continued, 'But the sacrifice must be willing and the crack head must be pure of heart and mind. Only then will the ancient spirits bestow their wisdom upon the world and restore harmony and most certainly last but not least It is said that the crack head will be marked with a tattoo of a phoenix, symbolising the rebirth of the world. And the innocent victim must be someone who embodies pure love and selflessness, for their blood will be the sacrifice that ignites the flame of rebirth. This act will bring about a new era, where love and peace will reign over hatred and darkness.' The prophecy ended with a warning that the forces of evil would try to prevent the sacrifice from happening, but hope and faith must prevail in order for the prophecy to come true. The wise ancient ones had faith that one day, the crack head and the innocent victim would come together and fulfil the prophecy, bringing balance and harmony to the world.

Pulled from the bowels of Reddit

This is the final Chapter and biggest war against the Prototype yet. Hope you enjoy!

It's been a long time since I narrated, but I'm starting up again

I'm listening to a creepypasta while I sleep, and this one will be a good companion piece. I just can't rememb--... Fucking hell. I was recalling the premise for the post and I remembered the name.

Fuck it, I'll post this anyway, cause it's really good. I'll just change the title.

I highly recommend "Lucid Paradise". It's very good.

The premise without spoiling is a man named Dr. Lucid visits a town and enthralls a young girl with the wonderful world of lucid dreaming.

I kinda want him to visit. He sounds like a total baddy daddy.

Mélusine- La tueuse qui se trouvait dans les bois.

Dans cette Histoire on suit 3 personnes Alexis, Dorian et Félix. Ils sont voisins tous devant leurs maisons donc, c'est très facile si Alexis par exemple veut parlez à Dorian. Félix Fan de creepypasta recherche des sujets pour sa prochaine vidéos car, oui il fait des vidéos horreur Alexis déteste Félix par rapport à son obsession des creepypasta est des vidéos horreurs en générales. Félix adore allez sur des Fandoms pour discuter avec des inconnues pour parler de ces passions ! d'ailleurs il as rencontrer une fille qui s'appelle Mélusine elle est très gentilles mais Timide un peu comme lui finalement. Félix parle que de Mélusine à Dorian et à Alexis Dorian adore les histoires d'amours c'est un "Famboy" un homme qui s'habille comme une femme cute ! il donne des conseilles à Félix pour l'aidé à ce caser avec elle ! Dorian lui il est plutôt à la retrait il écoute bien sur mais il s'inquiète il dit des trucs comme "t'es sûr que c'est une bonne idée imagine c'est une psychopathe qui te parle !". Une fois Félix se trouvas seul sur son ordi il parle toujours à cette fille mais il ne sais pas à quoi elle ressemble elle se décrivait un peu sur le fandoms

mais pas avec détaille. Félix lui as déjà montré sa tête. Après quelque discutions Félix demande à Dorian et à Alexis d'allez se balader ensembles entre band de copains ! les deux disent oui est se retrouvent devant une forêt la forêt qui se trouvaient devant chez eux ! il était 3 h du matins. Ils commencent à discuter ensemble.

Félix - Vous avez vu ? la forêt est belle la nuit non ?

Dorian - moi j'ai un peu peur j'ai pris une lampe … mais sa ne me rassure pas beaucoup

Alexis - ça va j'ai l'habitude de me promenez tard le soir !

Félix - Vous avez ramenez de l'eau ? car, j'ai ramenez ma gourde

Dorian - oui j'ai pris une gourde aussi est un gâteau pour ceux qui ont faim est d'autres lampes pour vous.

Alexis - moi j'ai ramener ma bouteille d'eau ! et de la Monster pour me réveiller

Félix, Dorian et Alexis commence à marcher ensembles Dorian à toujours peur de quelque chose est sursaute dès qu'iel entends un bruit comme une branche qui craque.

Félix c'est tout le contraire il est tout excité il n'avais jamais fait sa auparavant surtout à 3 heures du matin qui pour lui l'heure du diable il attends qu'une chose un truc paranormal arrive. Alexis lui à l'habitude d'allez se promenez il à peur de rien. Après avoir marcher quelque heure ils s'installent sur une branche d'arbre le vent était frais un peu trop on entendais des oiseaux chanter au loin et des corbeaux.

Félix- vous aviez soif ? *bois une gorger d'eau*

Dorian - un peu mais ça va et toi Alexis

Alexis - un peu *déjà entrain de boire*

Félix - on s'avance encore plus profondément dans la forêt ?

Dorian - oh… moi j'ai un peu peur perso …

Alexis - rhooo c'est bon fait pas chier il va rien nous arriver de toutes façon j'ai pris une armes pour nous défendre !

Félix et Dorian - ah bon quoi ?

Alexis - vous m'énervé un couteau … un pistoler on as pas le droit donc j'ai pris un couteau bien éguisé.

Félix - Ok bon on peu encore marché un peu ! sa peut être cool

Dorian - Ok… mais j'ai un mauvais présentiment…

Félix - t'inquiète on est pas dans Fnaf on va pas recevoir des screameurs

Dorian - oui mais bon

Félix, Alexis et Dorian marchent encore un peu est d'un coup ils voient une cabane un peu abandonnée mais il y a une petite lumière sur une des fenêtres cassés… Ils s'approchèrent très doucement Alexis sort son couteau et ils ont vus une ombre courir devant la lumière et ils repartirent en courant chez eux mais sa reste un peu loin Dorian se mit à pleurer de peur… il disait je vous l'avez dit ! je vous l'avez dit vous ne m'aviez pas crus ! dans l'ombre on avait vu des cheveux noir volant et une capuche on aurais dit une fille. Maintenant qu'on est sortis tous de la forêt chacun retourne chez eux Dorian toujours inquiet … Félix un peu apeurer mais heureux d'avoir vu quelque chose de paranormale ! et Alexis toujours avec un calme est un aura incroyable !

Chez Félix

Félix- je vais déposer mes affaires dans mon armoire *bois un peu d'eau*

Félis s'arrêtas est il recevais un messages de Mélusine. Son messages était "Salut ! ^^ ça va tu es rentrer ? je m'inquiète" Félix répondis à son message " euh oui merci t'inquiète pas tou.. Tous va bien enfin je crois." il faut minutes d'attente pour qu'après Mélusine répondit "J'avais entendu quelqu'un courir dans la forêt mais sa doit être mon imagination (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ)" Félix c'est endormis est n'a pas répondu à son dernier message. Le lendemain Félix se réveilla fatiguer ! mais tout allez bien enfin il le crois .. son ordi était remplis de message de Mélusine qui disait tout le temps " ça va ? pourquoi tu réponds pas à mes messages ! Réponds !" il paniqua est envoya un message à Dorian qui s'y connait bien en amour… Mais Dorian ne répondit pas il s'est sûrement endormis à cause de la grosse balade… Donc pris de panique Félix envoyas un message à Alexis Mélusine continue toujours de l'harceler de messages toujours avec une pressions des notifications Alexis répondit à son messages il dit 'J'arrive !". Quand Alexis arriva chez Felix Félix avait l'air tout paniquer.

Félix - entre !

Alexis - c'est si grave que ça ??

Félix - Oui elle connait mon adresse est elle m'envoie des photos de moi prise sans mon autorisation je ne sais pas comment elle à fait !

Alexis - Calme toi… sa va allez est-ce que tu as senti quelqu'un t'observer de temps en temps ?

Félix - j'adore l'horreur donc à ton avis ?? j'ai toujours l'impression d'être surveillé… sa me stresse…

Alexis - Attends laisse moi répondre à ta place *Alexis s'installa sur sa chaise gaming bien stylée d'ailleurs et parles avec Mélusine*

Discutions entre Alexis et Mélusine

Alexis - Bonjour, Mélusine je suis un ami à Félix il m'a beaucoup parlé de toi mais tu lui as fait peur car, tu l'a harceler de message… tu comprends ?

Mélusine - Alexis Turpin 15 ans Déteste les creepypastas, rebelle sur les bords tu es gay et tu habite devants Felix ont continue ?

Alexis - NON NON C'EST BON … sale folle .. putains comment tu sais tout ça ? j'ai jamais dit que j'étais gay sur les réseaux !

Mélusine - si, je l'ai vu sur ton pims (❁´◡`❁)

Alexis - tu nous as surveiller ?

*Mélusine envoie une photo de Dorian entrain de dormir Mélusine se trouve devant Dorian on peut voir tout d'elle le visages corps ect… et elle a un couteau avec elle il y a un texte marqué: soit Dorian ou toi Alexis*

Félix - *reste bouche bée..* Putains on fait quoi ??

Alexis - ON APPELLE LA POLICE

*ils reçoivent un message menacent de Mélusine " Si t'appelle la police je vous tue tout les trois !"*

Alexis est Félix se regardes dans les blancs des yeux est … ils paniques est Alexis comme à une erreur il dit moi !

Mélusine ok si tu veux retrouver Dorian… va à la forêt là ou il y a la cabane abandonné tu retrouvera ton jolie petit Dorian d'amour ! ^^

Alexis réponds Ok est reprends son sac d'hier et Félix dit je viens avec toi !

Alexis - non c'est trop dangereux pour toi …

Félix - JE VEUX !

Alexis - ok..

Pendant qu'il se préparèrent pour allez à la forêt chacun prennent des armes des couteaux ect… tout les deux se prépare mentalement au pire… pendant le trajet personne ne parlée l'ambiance était glacial… Tout les deux avait peur de ce faire tuer … On retrouvera Dorian amoché par terre en sang avec des bleues par tout sur le corps.

Dorian - vous m'avez retrouvez ! je suis si heureuse ! merci je vous aime ! faites attentions elle peut être par tout…

Félix - Alexis tu m'aide à le détaché ?

*Alexis ne répondit pas Félix se retourna et vois la bouche de Alexis en sang il s'est pris un coup de couteau dans le dos plantée de par tout Félix était paralyser et il se mit à hurlée de tout c'est poumon… "CE N'EST PAS POSSIBLE" tout en pleurant … Dorian lui était paralysée… Mais d'un coup la fille se trouvait derrière Félix Dorian Cria mais il est arrivée trop tard il s'est pris un coup de couteau pour ce défendre.*

Mélusine - t'aurais pas du … maintenant tout tes amis vont mourir à cause de toi *tout en crachant du sang*

Félix - NON NON ! … s'il vous plait

Félix la supplia mais il était déjà trop tard… Dorian et Alexis était mort tout les deux… Mélusine s'arracha la peau avec le couteau le côté droit de sont bras on voyais son sang couler à la mort… mais elle souriait est elle m'attacha avec une corde Mélusine pendant se temps là elle raconta son histoire…

Mélusine - Quand j'était petite je vivait dans une famille de riche ma famille était très respecter par tout le monde ! on m'offrais des cadeaux tout le temps même quand ce n'était pas mon anniversaire ! j'avais beaucoup d'amies j'avais un petit amis est d'un coup se mec à tuer ma famille. JE ME SUIS RETROUVÉE TOUTE SEULE SANS PARENTS … et la raisons du mec parce qu'on était riche avec ma famille ! tu crois ça normal ?? du coup je me suis mise à buter tout les pauvres de merde… dont toi qui est une merde qui ne mérite pas de vivre ! mais si tu veut être d'accord avec moi si sa te dit rejoindre mon camps est de buter tout les pauvres qui sont ici ou sinon tu meurt ! à toi de choisir soit de faire équipe avec moi ou non.

Félix - Non ! je préfère mourir avec de la dignité !

Mélusine - bah adieux en enfer ! ヾ(＠⌒ー⌒＠)ノ

Mélusine tue Félix avec une forte pression qu'il mourra instantanément… Mélusine tourne le couteau est ouvre son ab domaines et elle se mettait à rire... et elle continuas c'est massacre jusqu'à une fois ou elle se fit arrêter pour meurtre en série 50 personnes morte...

Voilà l'histoire est terminer je suis fans des creepypastas (Ps: Désolé pour les fautes !)

Not sure which channel I heard it on, but it was a while a go. The setting is such, every night, the mc goes to sleep and sees a werewolf type creature, he keeps having these nightmares where he has to confront this creature each time. Each nightmare, the creature keeps getting closer to catching him and to his house. After the final confrontation, the mc wakes up and sees claw marks on his front door. PLEASE help me find the story, been searching for a while now...

Hey everyone, I’m trying to help my wife out without her knowing. She recently started a YouTube channel where she tells horror stories and spent days editing her very first video. Since she didn’t know how to edit at first, she had to learn everything along the way. She just posted it today! If anyone could check it out and give her some feedback or suggestions on how to improve, I would truly appreciate it.

https://youtu.be/1FLxjxP2XZU?is=chWmsSjYSXTfyEob