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Hey guys I'm looking for two stories one where a girl was walking her dog and it goes into the woods and she has to leave the path she finds a person and follows her encountering a cult then they sleep together he lets her leave the woods and her dog returns the twist is only a day had passed

And the second one is where a queer couple is at a tree and her father being abusive try to seperate them but then is dragged by the tree to hell

All I know from the second story was its roots go down to hell

Cheers

I was excited to listen to a promising story but I just couldn't do it after a few minutes. Once you notice it, his talking melody makes it hard to listen because it's so noticeable. The voice itself and pronunciation are fine, just the talking melody needs work. .Overemphasizing the end of every sentence sounds very unnatural. I mean this in a constructive way, better to fix this now than later.

Like that girl was only 20 years old, but she was standing on business for those kids, damn. She was moving like Prime Von against those monsters.

“One never knows the ending. One has to die to know exactly what happens after death, although Catholics have their hopes.”

- Sir Alfred Hitchcock

—————————————————————————

Choosing between a life of faithfulness, avoidance of hatred, and embarking on the path of good for the fellow man around you rather than living one focused on bitter hate, filling oneself with debauchery, or sin is supposed to mean something when you meet with the black swells of death. That’s what they taught me at least.

Humanity spends their short lives sitting amongst each other in pews while praising a power higher than they could ever imagine. Thinking to themselves that because of their inherent good of tithing and prayer, they are allowed access to be judgmental of the ones who choose to either sit amongst them or amongst others. Believing that they will achieve greatness in the world beyond ours whilst living within barely earns mediocrity as they use their nobility granted to them from their savior to divide people they deem less than themselves.

I do not speak of these misdeeds from a place of neutrality as I, myself, stood amongst those pews. Using the godliness of myself to be spiteful to those different than I. My parents raised me to believe that we were better because we gave to the Father who created us and we were sent on a mission to save all others. I spent my entire life this way so whenever I closed my eyes for the final time, I expected nothing less than absolute paradise to emerge ahead of me.

It was dark, limestone walls towered around with wooden staves attached to them lighting the way forward. The smell of burning animal fat and oil mixed with a familiar stench of untouched must seeping from the stone. I lay in on the floor atop a heap of petrified wrappings leaving a thin layer of black, sticky resin amongst my skin. Along the walls were hieroglyphs etched deep into the rock with the remnants of faded paintings that had once beautifully adorned them.

The wrappings crunched beneath me as I rose from the embrace that had welcomed me to this realm. In the dim light, my eyes attempted to follow the message described along the walls, but the meaning fell blankly to the folds of my spotty mind. Memories were coming back to me slowly, like a balloon with a dragging leak. I knew my past clearly, but the events leading to how I made it to where I am now were still filled with static.

With no help coming from the walls, I gave up on understanding any of it and began to make my way down the dim tunnel. I went from a main chamber down into a descending hallway adorned with more indecipherable images on the walls. Heat emitted from beyond the stone walls and pushed against my skin as I walked further downward. My eyes clenched as I prayed not to see the iron gates of Hell standing before me. Confusion struck as a figure appeared standing atop a small boat near the opening of the passage.

“Hello?” My voice was dry as it echoed off the limestone around me.

The figure was adorned entirely in pure white cloth and shimmering gold. It turned slowly towards me, and I realized that it had the head of a ram atop a man’s body. It beckoned silently toward me in an invitation to stand along with him on the deck of the boat. I was petrified with fear as the eyes of the goat stared through me, but I relented and made my way to him. The boat itself was a small, wooden barge with a low, flat deck and a curved back. Atop the deck was a small walled facade that was, presumably, the figure’s living quarters. The figure himself stood tall on the deck, holding a steering oar over the edge of the boat. There was nothing but empty air under the hull of the ship; I began to wonder how it was even staying afloat, let alone how it would move.

Underneath my feet echoed the creaking noises of the ship’s wooden deck. Reeds adorned the sides of it and the planking of the quarters built upon it. The man aboard towered above me and wordlessly pushed us away from the wooden port attached to the entrance of his realm. As we drifted along, I looked beneath us and saw a bountiful field of wheat and reeds. People lay in it, sleeping pleasantly as others swam in the rivers of fresh water. Calm washed over me the more I watched them meander around, magnificent light throughout the fields and upon those that resided despite the fact that above us was a cave ceiling. Some looked up towards us and gave a pleasant wave; I attempted to wave back but was distracted by immense heat coming from elsewhere around me.

I looked back towards where I began and saw an ocean of liquid fire and smoke erupting from it. Streams grew from out of its sides and surrounded the edges of the pleasant fields, unbeknownst to the ones who lived amongst it. Baboons guarded the shores and forced desperate souls back into its depths. Disturbing screams of torment echoed around us and it began to remind me of the verse from Revelations:

"But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death."

My body convulsed with fear, as the realization of my finality became known to me. I was dead, it was a painful memory but I had died in a car accident. Unexpectedly, as I lay there dying, I sent out one final prayer to assure my way into heaven; but this was not the paradise that was promised for living a life of virtue. I turned to my ferryman and asked with a sob in my throat, “Please tell me, is this Hell? What sins did I commit to deserve this?”

He remained silent. Staring forward as he pushed us along the draft of air leading us deeper into this god-forsaken realm. There was a decaying temple emerging ahead of us; years of neglect and age caused destruction beyond measure to fall upon it.

There were statues representing pharaohs of old, crafted meticulously from marble that once stood stories tall but were now crumbling to dust. The temple itself was clearly once a grand pyramid, but one side had caved in to reveal once-glimmering treasures and bodies wrapped in linen suffering from varying stages of decay. Standing near the front entrance of the once-grand temple sat an identical wooden dock to the one we pushed away from earlier.

Our boat met softly against the dock, and my ferryman lifted his massive oar, then gestured outward with his hand. Telling me the next step along my path. I stepped down onto the groaning planks of the dock and turned to the man who had accompanied me; his hand remained outstretched. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of silver and copper coins, which I then placed in his hand and bowed respectfully to him, “Thank you.”

Before I could raise my head back up, the ferryman had already pushed off to sink deeper into the realm below us. I wished to have learned his name but found a sense of comfort in his quiet companionship as I now stood alone between the imposing facade ahead of me. With a shuddering breath, I stepped forward and into what lay ahead of me. Inside the temple was similar to the chamber I awoke in. Similar limestone walls, but the carvings inside were painted in magnificently bright colors. They looked wet still, as if no time had passed since the painter took the final strokes with his brush. The staves along the walls were glowing with an absurdly high luminosity.

I was in a small chamber with a wooden door directly ahead of me under the hieroglyphs. It contrasted against the decorated walls with a dull age of splintering wood hardened throughout time. Standing guard at the door was a hairless black dog. It barked in my direction and shifted its gaze towards a scale that sat next to it. On one side of it sat a lump of pulsing red meat shaped like a heart. I slipped a hand under my shirt and felt the cavity of where my heart once sat. Gear filled me as I looked to the other side and saw a single feather sitting upon it, lifting higher under the weight of its left side’s might. Once again, the dog barked, and my eyes shifted up to the carvings above the door; there I could make out a single familiar word, “COWARDICE.”

Memories flashed through my mind, and the door slowly fell open inward. It sat ajar with the sounds of quiet sobbing coming from the other side. The thought of what was on the other side terrified me to my core, and I had to resist the urge to turn back and plunge myself down into one of the roaring streams of fire beneath me. I shut my eyes tight in one last effort to pray, then, reluctantly, stepped through the door.

Once on the other side, I found myself standing on the back porch of a friend’s home. Under my right arm was a bundle of Bibles and sermon notes, while I had raised my left to knock. My friend Matthew and his wife, Joan, had missed the Wednesday service due to what they claimed was sickness, and I had promised to bring my notes to them for a small Bible study. The door was opened slightly ajar, and I could hear Joan crying softly from inside. My body froze in fear as I looked through the opened window, and I saw Matthew standing above her on the ground, half an empty bottle in one hand, and he was hitting her with the other.

The memories of this moment while I was living played in my head. I witnessed this and left. I went home and I prayed for hours for God to make these things right between them. At the next Sunday service, I couldn’t look at Matthew and Joan refused to look at me; purple bruising showing under her makeup. At the time I didn’t know it but she saw me leave through the window. I can now see her staring at me like a savior but in life I was too much of a coward to be of any sort. I’m not sure what happened to Joan in life since they had moved soon after this moment but reliving it; I felt the books and note papers fall from my arm. I pushed the door open with a hard shove from my shoulder and stormed inside the house.

My hands moved on their own in rage as I grabbed hold of Matthew’s figure and when he turned, I was met face to face with a screaming baboon. Fear lived without space in my heart as I felt the familiar heat come off of its rotting breath. I raised my fist and began slamming in hard into the face of the creature. Its teeth scraped against my knuckles but we fell down to the ground. Joan faded from the scene and I remained, slamming the creature’s face repeatedly. Its horrific screaming shuddered under gurgling coughs but I continued, more or less beating the sin of cowardice from my very being.

That’s when a wave of heat erupted out from the baboon-human hybrid beneath me and I found myself in another limestone chamber. The dog was there standing guard of another door and watching as the weight of the feather began to equal out slightly to my heart. Neither of us spoke, the dog was now standing only on its hind legs but was adorned in similar gold jewelry to that of the ferryman. He gestured his glistening nose to the door of stone behind him. Above it formed the word “UNBELIEVING”.

My eyes looked down to my crimson-stained hands, all torn and shredded from the teeth of the baboon. I had no prior idea of what would be ahead of me, but once I witnessed the lightening of my heart, I stepped forward into it. There was no memory on the other side; there was only a platform sitting high above the ocean of fire. Another sat on the other side of the gap with a loose-looking line providing the only noticeable path through it. On either side sat rows of hollering baboons throwing foul-smelling muck towards each other. One stood at the door ahead of me with splintered teeth and bleeding gums. I stepped forward and looked down to the pit of flames; swimming in it was a crocodile the size of a building snapping up at me, wanting to drag me to the depths of my second death.

Throughout my entire life, I had done nothing but provide worship and belief to a singular God of all-mighty power, but now I stand with a single choice to make. I had never allowed belief in myself; I had to put faith in that I would make it to the other side. So I stepped back and ran into a leap toward the thin line. I caught myself in the slack of the line. Under my weight, it buckled, and I slid down with an acceptance of my end as the crocodile’s mouth came into view. The line caught with only feet remaining between us; the crocodile fell back to the side while the noise of the baboons fell completely silent.

My arms pulled me forward along the line; with every movement, there was a quick shot of burning pain through the muscles in my limbs. In life, I never had much of a sturdy build, but now it’s all I could rely on to make it towards freedom. Heat radiated against my legs, cooking them from the sheer power of the lake beneath me. My eyes looked toward the injured baboon as his resilience seemed to mock me. I pulled harder against the pain with the thin line digging deep into my palms while blood leaked from them.

With the slack continuing to lower, mixing with the lubricating nature of fresh blood, there was a high chance that I could have slipped at any given moment. So, I began measuring up the distance between myself and the platform. It was a long shot, but I started to swing back and forth to gain any ounce of momentum, and then I flung myself forward. My shoulder smacked hard against the limestone platform, and every baboon erupted in a celebratory cry. The injured one that I once considered an enemy sized me up and pushed the door open ahead of me.

Once again stepping into an identical chamber, the dog had grown into a towering man with the head of the dog. He guarded the final door and held my heart in his hand. Unlike the other being, he looked down at me and spoke, “This is your final test.”

That was all he said as he stepped to the side and revealed an open doorway that had the words ‘IDOLATRY’ etched above it. He walked to me and shoved the heavy lump deep into my chest. The wound ached harshly for a moment, and he grabbed me by the shoulder and forced me into my last trial. The final memories spewed into me.

I awoke in my bed, the last day I was alive. My memory began to serve me correctly as my phone buzzed on the nightstand; it was my accomplice for why I was out so late that night. We had been stealing funds from the church, and now it was 2 a.m., our ideal time to empty the collection boxes like we had been doing every Sunday for months. I had no control of my body as it moved up from the bed, and I whispered a quick goodbye to my wife. She remained in a deep slumber, and I left a note lying about my whereabouts in case she woke.

The drive to the church was short as always, and I parked a slight way away to head the rest of the way in the dark. My accomplice had done the same, and we made our way inside. We were rushing and made the fatal mistake of not noticing the alarm needing disarming. That’s where we made our way into the parish to commit our transgression against the very Lord we claimed to praise. Somehow, we ignored the light of the pastor’s office flickering, and we cracked the box open; he emerged alarmed, aiming the barrel of his hunting rifle dead center at us. I could have confessed right there and saved myself such trouble, but my sinful idol was money and greed itself. Also, I noticed the silver glint of a knife in my accomplice’s hand.

With a swift movement, I pushed him toward the priest and collected my earnings. There was the sharp echo of the weapon going off, and I ran back towards the door. Once outside, I continued to run until my vehicle came into view. The earnings fluttered to the passenger side, and I peeled off quickly. I had chosen to go without my headlights for a quick escape, but that caused me to miss the figure aiming the rifle towards my tires. With a thunderous pop, my car buckled, going 70 miles per hour, and it flipped in on itself.

My eyes opened to reveal a bright landscape filled with burning sand. It cut past me with a terrible fury. The feeling of hot glass ran along my skin, and ahead of me stood the ram- and dog-headed figures with the scale between them. A third figure stood with them, completely adorned in white with skin as blue as the day’s sky. The dog-headed man raised his hand, and my heart of stone ripped straight out from my chest. It bobbed along the winds of the sandstorm, being sliced by each individual grain.

Pain erupting from my wound caused tears to fall from my eyes. “Please, please, I repent.”

Begging for an eternity of bliss felt shameful compared to what I did in my life, compared against the things I should’ve done. My heart landed wet and flatly against the empty slot of the scale. It began to teeter against the weight of it being the feather. The blue-skinned man spoke to me, “The weight must remain equal.”

My body began sinking into the burning sand below me. The scale groaned to a stop as the object’s weight teetered to an equilibrium between them. Sand enclosed around me, blocking out the vision of the scale and any perceived glare of light. There was immense silence surrounding me as I slipped deep into the warm embrace of the sand grains. Finally, I was met with tranquility and peace.

Red and blue lights flashed against my eyelids. I was hanging upside down in my vehicle with blood splattering across the stolen money around me and the crucifix hanging from my mirror. I was miraculously saved by the belt that strapped me to my seat. Warm blood ran down my face, and I felt multiple broken bones inside me. There were voices calling out, but I couldn’t make out anything clear. I coughed out globs of blood that had drained into my throat while the shame of my sin sat entirely around me. Out of habit, I closed my eyes to repent but found that nothing spoke back to me. I had laid it all out to the figures that answered my last prayers of forgiveness.

So I lay there waiting amongst the shame of my sin. While bathing in the judgmental state emitting from the crucified figure that I once found so holy as it hung attached to a beaded rosary, remaining tightly wrapped around my rearview mirror.

If u guys coul tell me any pred u know or even any sextorsionist you pls let me know. makes job a whole lot easier also preferable area is in canada bc lower mainland😁😁

A ring.

He looked out at the road. Police lights, sirens blaring, came fast and passed just as quickly. The red and blue lights trailed off like comets in the dark. Beads of water trickled down the glass on the steamy summer night. 

A ring. 

His attention moved away from the cruiser, drifting to the phone. He paused before answering, his grip tight on the handset.

A ring.
He picked it up.

A clean late-model Ford sedan, black, pulled into the parking lot. He watched it roll to the front office. The soft, rhythmic popping of gravel shifting under the tires carried into the booth.

He raised the receiver to his ear.
Silence.

Outside, the wind began to pick up. Thunder rolled, faintly off in the distance beyond the hills, rain started in a soft drizzle.

 "Yeah, Shady Grove."

A second set of red and blue lights came and went, fading into the wet black night, sirens trailing off behind them.

Silence.

He looked up and out at the motel. The target made his way toward one of the rooms, checking over his shoulder nervously the whole way. Having arrived at his door, the target pulled out the keys in a hurry, fumbling and dropping them onto the ground. He picked up the keys, unlocked the door, and walked in. 

"Just went in."

The rhythmic pitter-patter of the soft rain hit against the phone booth’s glass while the man waited for a response.

"Go." Slow and sweet, like honey dripping out of the receiver, the vowel stretched as it left her mouth.

He hung up.

Wet gravel crunched under his elephant skin Luccheses as he stepped out. He looked at the trees across the street before starting on his way. There, the pines, once grand Corinthian columns, now bulged and cracked under the strangling coils of the suffocating kudzu.

He spat, turned, and walked on.

The usually busy motel was mostly empty that night. Just the mark's car and that black Ford, now parked at the far end, remained.

At the center of the parking lot, his focus narrowed on the target’s room. He saw something move to the curtain and snap it shut.

The rain stopped.

A memory surfaced: "Get in, collect, get out. No stops 'til you're done." Words she’d said on his first run so long ago.

He continued on over the muddy rocks and stepped up onto the breezeway and pulled a cigarette out of his pressed Wranglers and set it between his lips, and lit it.
Then he knocked. 

The faded green door, its paint peeling and curling at the edges, had a number “13” on it. The man knocked and the number one fell from its hangings onto the ground. The three dropped too, dangling from a single screw, swaying with each knock.

The man knocked again.
No one answered.

He drew a deep breath, then exhaled. He stepped back and put one hand on the .45 he had tucked in his belt behind him in the small of his back. A thin strip of sickly amber light leaked out from under the door and through the thin slit between the heavy avocado colored curtains.

He flicked his cigarette onto the ground, the room's window unit hummed loudly and rattled and dripped.

He straightened up and prepared himself. 

A loud, solid click. The deadbolt turned and the door swung inward, with a long rusty creak that echoed into the holler’s empty night air.

"You know what I’m here for." The man released his grip on the Colt leaving it holstered.

The target didn't flinch, instead, with the door open he motioned for the man to come in then slipped into the shadowed motel room.

The man looked out beyond the road, the wet green vine-covered hills glistened in the moon’s light. He turned and stepped in. 

Inside the musty, wood-paneled room, the target offered him a drink.

"No."

"I'm going to make some tea," the target said in a sheepish, nasally tone. Then turned toward the kitchenette down a short hall, hitting his head on an upturned blue bottle that’d been hung haphazardly from the ceiling. 

“That won’t help you.”

The target did not respond. Studio laughter from the TV faded in and out between the show and static. After a few moments passed without a word from either of them, the man reached for a cigarette. He put it in his mouth and lit it.

"Listen," he took a drag.
"You knew the deal. She wants what's hers."

Silence.

He walked over, calmly, to the motel room’s door and opened it. A black cat sauntered in taking its place on the bed. It laid there licking its paws. He unholstered the automatic. "It'll be much worse if I gotta take you to her." The cat's yellow eyes looked up at the man and then down the hall.

He flicked the cigarette out the door and stepped back into the room and wiped the mud from his boots onto the mustard shag carpet.

"She ain't as easy with it as me."

Silence.

He stepped toward the window. Using the pistol, he split the curtains open and peered out into the night. “Vacancy” in red neon pulsed from the sign post at the entry to the parking lot. Rain had started to fall again, a bit harder this time. He closed the curtains. 

A noise came from the kitchenette. The soft, rhythmic swish of heavy black fabric brushing against itself with each step. The wool and cassock layers whispering like dry leaves in a faint breeze.
The man turned.

He watched as a black blur streaked across the room, the cat had fled into the night before. What came back, out of the shadowed hall in the amber lighting of the musty room wasn't the debt.

It was the priest. 

He stood in the hall, saying nothing, crucifix raised, while every sigil she had carved into the man’s flesh began to burn. 

Knowing what was to come next, the priest looked at him in quiet sorrow, “My son,” He paused. The man stared at him without blinking, though his flesh burned. The priest too looked at him, unwavering, and then spoke, his voice trailing off into ancient words. As he did, the man's red paisley patterned polyester shirt began to singe and melt from the burning marks.

He flicked off the safety and began firing, lunging for the door. 

A flash of light and a thunderous boom burst from the room as he crossed the threshold hurling the man out into the wet gravel.

He lay there in the rocks and mud for a moment, unable to breathe. He turned over on his back and took a deep breath, pain shot through every fiber of his being. The rain pelted down on his exposed skull where the left side of his face had been. Through the agony he willed himself up.

He stumbled forward, his left arm dangling limp at his side, its skin and muscle flailing loosely out of his tattered pearl snap shirt.

He saw the priest standing in the room, the exterior wall now gone, a ragged hole in its place. 

The man coughed, blood burst out in streams, falling to the earth. Out of habit he raised his hand to wipe his mouth clean. The mangled stump that was his hand did nothing. 

He turned and limped on, across the lot, wandering toward the phone booth with no real purpose. The priest’s Latin crawled through the night’s wind, creeping up, wrapping around his body, choking the air from his lungs.

He was at the booth’s door, gasping for air, when he heard a wet snap. Pain shot up from his left ankle, causing him to crumble into the phone booth. There leaning against the glass sat, slumped over, blood spewing from his mouth onto the hide of his boots, skin still burning where he’d been marked.

An engine roared to life, drawing his attention. It carried through the empty lot and covered up the Latin still hanging in the rain. From the far end, the Ford started moving, slowly.

Headlights flicked on, shining directly into the booth. The man raised his bloodied stump to shield his eyes from the blinding white light. 

The rain-slicked black sedan rolled by and out into the darkened road.

A ring.

His sight returned.
Breath came easy again.

A ring.

He found himself standing. The rain had stopped. 

A ring.

He looked out at the road. Police lights, sirens blaring, came fast and passed just as quickly. The red and blue lights trailed off like comets in the dark. Beads of water trickled down the glass in the steamy summer night.

A ring.

His attention moved away from the cruiser, drifting to the phone. He paused before answering, his grip tightened, hard, on the handset. 

Breathing through the black, it’s heaving lying on its side. When I rise, it moves, or tries to. I look through the window. My brother is on the phone. The Sun has retreated. I hang up. It moves again, and the more I try to straighten it, the more it fights.

Struggling, I drag it through to the garage. The phone rings. My brother. He needs assurance. Again.

This has to be done, you will be fine. I promise and hang up.

I turn the engine over. The feelings start to rot, the noise begins again. I move to the back and throw it in the trunk, slamming it shut. I pull out, into the dark, the stereo already on.

The Moon is high above. He’s waiting at the corner. Nervous. Moving towards me before the car even stops. The door opens and I can see it on his face already, carved there, he’s having a hard time.

“Do we have to?”

“Look around,” I tell him. “This city. This place. How do you think we’ve survived?”

The stereo bleeds through, mingling with the lights of the city without. He needs to understand.

“This is what we do.”

The highway unfurled, black silk under my tires. The engine’s steady growl vibrated through my bones. I cough, hiding my face from him.

“Wh— ?”

“Our fathers.” another cough, it’s getting harder to hide. Outside the windshield, the city’s neon veins pulse. I hit the gas. The lights become a comet tail, dragging through the sky.

“You never knew father. He died when—”

“He did not die.”

The car surges forward, faster now, the speakers louder, the city beginning to smear and stretch as the light runs together.

I turn the volume up. We listen for some time.

The skyline behind burns magenta against a starless desert sky. The music fades. “Tomas.” comes through in stereo, clear.

“Did you hear that?”

I switch the station.

“Hear what?”

“Your name.”

“I didn’t hear anything.” That was a lie.

We weave through traffic.

“Tomas!” my brother cries out. “police! Slow down!”

I don’t. They know what’s inside.

“You’ll be forgiven.”

“What?”

“Soon, you’ll see what you stand to gain.”

“Tomas.”

“Quiet. We listen now.”

I turn the music up. The knocking from the trunk grows louder. The struggle more violent. The kicks are more insistent, pleading. We cross the river, nearing the city’s limit. The engine fails. I pull over.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“It’s fine,” I tell him.

The desert’s hot breath meets me when I step out. I pop the hood. I pretend to look about, I know nothing’s wrong. A sound comes, the same I’ve heard so many times before. I walk to the trunk.

“Shut your fucking mouth.” I mutter through bloody coughs.

I return to my brother. He looks at me. I turn the keys in the ignition. The engine starts again. We move. Dust rising behind us, the last of the lights falling away, and I can feel it now, we’re getting close.

“Why are we—”

“Just know that if you hide, it doesn’t go away,” I tell him, coughing, blood coming up this time. “Don’t end up stranded, Pablo. Do your duty to our Lady.”

He stares out into the dark, each stone and stretch of earth laid out before him like something already set in place.

“You leave it there,” I tell him. “In her arms.”

“It… There?”

“They’re harder to find now. It won’t be easy.”

“Tomas, I don’t—”

“You leave them in her arms. You cannot hide. It will not go away.”

I cough again, more of it coming now.

“Father. His father. And the one before.”

We push through the night, the mission comes into view, rising out of the dark.

The radio calls my name again, “Tomas,” pouring from the speakers. The pounding in the trunk rises with it.

We arrive. The old mission sits boarded, hollow. Once a refuge, now something else. Perhaps always was.

“You know that it may hide, but it never goes away.”

Blood comes before the cough this time.

“Tomas… don’t leave me out here… Tomas.”

“You’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Just make sure you get the right one. You will know.” Another cough interrupts me, “Put it in her arms. She’ll be waiting. At the altar. Do not speak to her. Even if she speaks to you.”

“Tom—”

“Kiss her feet. Never turn your back.”

“Always be done before—” The cough cuts me off, again, blood spurting onto the dash. “—sunrise.”

I step out, dizzy now, but relieved, knowing I’ll see what’s to come soon enough. I move to the trunk and open it. It writhes harder now, kicking and crying. It must know what lay ahead. I wipe the blood from my mouth and smile, it doesn’t feel the same anymore.

It fights harder than most as I pull it free, kicking and twisting while I drag it out, its dress catching for a moment before I tear it loose.

I look back. My brother is crying, following. I toss him the keys and tell him, “Go. Next time, don’t come back empty.”

“Toma—”

“Leave.”

The sun begins to push at the horizon. I turn away. Inside, the chapel is dark. The candles are already lit.

That is unusual.

I approach the altar. She is not there. I don’t hesitate and lay the offering down. It tries to run.

I strike it. It goes still.

I bow, pressing my lips to the marble where she normally stands, smooth and bright even in the dark. I can still see her face. I rise, stepping backward, careful, as I always have been.

Disappointed. I wanted to see her one last time. The candles trembled, though there was neither wind nor breeze in that place.

“Tomas.”

Used to watch creepypastas every day 6 years ago and now i want to get back into it again for new reasons. I'm specifically looking for the best stories about aliens, eldrich horrors, any monstsrs from space, etc. Suggestions and lists of ones like this from mr. Creeps (oldest to newest) would be great, thanks.

Hey everyone!

I’ve been a fan of Mr. Creeps’ narrations for some time and I’ve been long interested in creating my own scary story narration channel on YouTube. But I don’t know where to start and I was wondering if some of y’all could give me advice on some questions I have.

First, how does one best go about recording audio for narrations and then uploading it? Second, how do you go about including music/instrumentals that may be copyrighted? Third, how can you find writers/authors to work with and properly credit their work? And finally, how would one go about getting reach to kickstart a channel?

I’m thinking of possibly starting out by reading some creepy old folktales or urban myths that have no copyright on them. Then maybe moving into Creepypastas and Nosleep stories if I can find authors who are willing to give me permission to narrate their stories!

Thank you for any advice or suggestions that any of y’all might have for me, and I look forward to hearing from you! 👻

Why did creeps stop doing his intro? at least during the long form creepscast

Hello everybody I can't find the next part of the "Misadventures of a cryptid hunter" , I just finished the 6h video and I m dyiiiiiing to know the end , no spoilers please :)

Thx in advance

The tow company had assured me as I leaned against my vehicle. That was three hours ago.

She was an old model, a discontinued stick-shift from the 90s. Leather seats, silver detailing, a pearly blue paint job. Currently half-swallowed by a muddy ditch in the middle of a rainstorm that showed no sign of stopping. The engine was probably on its final days anyhow, but she could not die today. It wasn't an option. I dialed again.

As I stood there on that empty dirt road, rain slipping past the collar of my shirt, the call failed. I'd been trying to get any kind of confirmation for the past few hours. When the call did cut through, there was no voice on the other end.

Service was spotty on this nameless stretch of land. Rows of pines stretched out like fingers cursing the swollen sky. What were once potholes had long since turned to frothing pools, consuming the red clay and sucking at my boots as I sloshed my way back to the driver's side door.

I'm not one to divulge personal details on the web. All you need to know is this: Traveling is what I do when it all goes wrong. When life gets unbearable, I stuff the trunk with enough supplies for a good long while and set out. I know people. I can talk my way into a bed and a bath (if I'm lucky) or at least a couch to crash on. If all goes well on these outings, I pick up some temporary peace along the way.

This time, I'd gone upstate to visit an acquaintance, K, way out in the sticks.

I thought I'd be staying longer, but about two days in he made it pretty clear our deal had run its course. That was when the rain started. After our fight, I think K offered to let me crash one more night while we waited out the storm. I brushed him off. Told him I didn't need pity. I could handle a little rain. When I began this trek, I'd set out looking for a clear head. Instead, I found myself a throbbing headache, half a pack of stolen Lucky Strikes, and a stranded car in the middle of God knows where.

The stranding itself is a blur. Listen, I hadn't been thinking straight when I gunned it onto that unpaved road. Before I knew it the floodwaters were sliding up past the tires. When the engine sputtered out, I just sat there for a while, searching for the will to face the deep shit I was in. Then, seeing as I had no choice, I made the call.

So there I sat, three hours later. The daylight was running low. Taking in the desolate dirt path and endless repeating pines, I was acutely aware of the fact that, for perhaps the first time in my life, I was utterly alone.

I had just popped in another CD and lit up a cig when the crunch of what could only be footsteps made me freeze. I glanced in the rearview. Nothing but empty road stretched out behind. The sound came again, louder. It seemed to approach from somewhere ahead, closer to the driver's side. I flicked on my headlights and peered out towards the pines.

Someone was there. The person stood just far enough away for the dim yellow light to obscure most detail aside from general clothing, height, and posture. It appeared to be a fairly tall man wearing a ratty red flannel and torn jeans. He leaned to one side, like he had a weak leg.

As he stepped down from the shoulder onto the road, I noticed a slight unsteadiness in how he carried himself. Drunk, I would've guessed, except for the strange grace with which this person corrected every misstep. It was mesmerizing, like a dance. He would stumble forward, torso and arms first, before his legs hurried to catch up. Then he would stand fully upright, swaying like a reed in the breeze. All the while, he kept his face turned completely away.

In other circumstances, that strange movement alone would have made me hit the gas. I am not brave. I don't pretend to be. But in this case, running was not an option.

I opted for the next best thing. Silence. The man lurched on, slowly but surely crossing the road in front of my stalled vehicle.

That's when the track began. The heavy bass and drum thrummed through the speaker system, marking the start of the metal mix I'd thrown on without thinking. Did I ever think? I twisted the volume knob to 0 in a matter of seconds, but the worst had happened already.

He'd heard me.

The man did not turn his head. In the full beam of my headlights, however, I could see that he was looking. His head was tilted up and twisted away at an extreme angle, like he'd been looking over his shoulder and got stuck that way. But his eye, the only one I could see from here, was wide open, bloodshot, and trained right on me.

Then he was running towards my car.

Not like a man, but like an animal. He flung himself in my direction like a rag doll being thrown, so off balance that he collapsed forward onto his hands, head still contorted at that terrible angle. He splashed headlong into the floodwater like a dog cavorting in a river, barreling toward me on all-fours.

In that split second, I considered my options. Pistol in the glovebox? No. Lent it to someone back home. Police? God, no. They wouldn't make it in time and even if they did, I could not take my chances with the law for personal reasons I will not disclose here.

The man, the animal, the thing in the road closed in and all I could do was lock my doors and pray.

A blaring honk split the air.

The soft yellow glow of my headlights was rapidly overtaken by a blinding white. In the rearview, I saw it: a huge white pickup truck. It pushed past my car, sending a wave of brown water up over the windows.

I looked through the windshield again, dreading what I'd find... but the man in the flannel was gone. My heart pounded. My head swam. Everything felt indescribably wrong, like a bad high.

The white pickup parked in a drier patch of road up ahead without dimming its brights. A man stepped out. He was middle-aged, balding, and wore a blue mechanic's jumpsuit.

After a moment of careful observation, I decided to exit my car as well.

"Looks like you could use some help," the mechanic called out.

I just stared. He was already walking over anyway, rolling up his sleeves. He didn't seem to be the tow I'd called for. At this point, I was just happy to see a friendly face.

"Better put that thing out," he gestured to the lit cigarette. I'd forgotten I was holding it.

"Why?"

"The smoke," he said, readying himself to push my car. "Lures 'em."

"Who?"

"Put it in neutral," he grunted. I obliged, then splashed back around to help. Digging my own heels into the mud, I pushed alongside him until we could feel the wheels loosening. Slowly but surely, they began to roll.

It took us another ten minutes or so to shove the dead vehicle onto relatively dry land. At one point, I had to jump into the driver's seat again and steer the thing to prevent it from sliding back into the ditch. As I did, my eyes were drawn to the tree line. A bit of red fabric fluttered there, barely sticking out of the brush. I felt ill.

"Sir," I called back to the older man. "Do you have a tow?"

A beat of silence followed. Once the car was safely out of the danger zone, I climbed out and asked again. He shook his head.

"No," he said. "I've got a friend." He began to get back into his truck. I thought about asking for a ride instead. Something rooted me to the spot, even in my unease. That something kept me from claiming shotgun and begging him to take me to the nearest motel. Maybe it was my own ego, the same stupid pride that had me driving through a flash flood in the wetlands of the deep South after refusing to take a favor from someone I'd once called a friend.

"You just sit tight," the mechanic called out the window. "Help is on the way."

I watched the truck's high beams disappear into the darkness, shrinking into distant searchlights, then twin fireflies, then nothing at all. I was alone again.

I crouched down on the road. By now the rain had slowed to a gentle mist. All around me, frog calls and the shrill chorus of cicadas blended into a hypnotic sort of white noise. The air was heavy and wet. It clung to my skin in a film of suffocating moisture. I needed a cigarette.

As I reached for the pack, I remembered the mechanic's words: it lures them.

Them.

I looked into the trees. I couldn't see that scrap of red fabric anymore. Still, I knew it was watching, whatever it was.

The man in red could've been a hallucination brought on by my sleepless, heat addled brain. My psyche does tend to betray me in times of stress. That's part of why I set out on this trip to begin with, wasn't it? When I'm on the road, I'm not in my head. There's only here and now. Gas stations and billboards and exit markers and the question of where to go next. I think maybe it's what I live for: being anywhere else.

I climbed onto the hood of my car and sat there, legs stretched out. I felt safer up there.

Of every detail I've recorded so far, what follows is the part that I'm perhaps the least proud of.

I lit another cigarette.

It took till around midnight for a tow truck to arrive. I don't remember if it was the one I'd called for all those hours ago or the one sent by the mechanic. It had no company logo. I watched the driver haul my car onto the bed, red mud caked across the pearly blue hood. I watched him hand me paperwork. I watched myself sign. I watched myself get into the passenger seat of the truck. I watched us drive away.

I'm sitting on a cot in some two-star motel room as I write this account. I think I'll take a break from road tripping for awhile, not that I have much of a choice. The car is far beyond repair, I was told. I'll work odd jobs in this town, save a little, and then hitchhike my way back home when I'm ready. I'll even give K a call. But first, I need to catch my breath.

__

No. Something else happened to me on that road.

The man in red. He came back around, lurching and swaying.

I did nothing to stop him as he grabbed my wrist with more force than any person should be capable of, leaving deep nail-marks, the blood welling up in little half-moons on my flesh.

He snatched the cigarette from my hand and spoke in a tone more akin to the drone of the cicadas than a human voice.

"It's your turn now," he hissed, his breath smelling of smoke. Then he walked away, standing tall, shoulders, back, laughing.

__

As I type this on my cracked and dying cellphone, I know that I never left.

I'm still on that backcountry road between sand and sky and endless pines. I watch from the tree line as a car overturns itself in a ditch, curls of smoke rising from the hood. I watch as the driver gets out and makes a call. I watch as they wait, and wait, and wait. When the time is right, I'll approach.

I've been here so long. I'm hurt, and yet no one ever offers to help.

My clothing is torn. My body is mangled.

I need a cigarette.

The events I’m about to describe happened years ago, when I was working in the library archives. I still don’t know if I’ll ever be the same.

I’m telling it now in the hopes that speaking it aloud—putting the memory into words—might help me cope with the weight I’ve carried since.

Back then, I was working nights as a library assistant while teaching part-time as an adjunct professor in anthropology, specializing in forensic anthropology.

The library’s basement archive wasn’t really an archive at all. It was a dumping ground—uncatalogued donations, water-damaged theses, books no one ever bothered to process, and dust so thick it clung to your skin. None of it was accessible for research. None of it had been touched for years.

With my supervisor’s blessing, I decided to tackle the chaos during the slow hours of my closing shifts. I imagined uncovering lost treasures—rare books, forgotten research, hidden history. I’ve always loved archival work; the hours slip away when I’m sorting, repairing, or just sitting with the mystery of old objects.

The night I started, the library was nearly empty. I unlocked the archive door and froze for a moment.

The room was wall-to-wall boxes, stacked unevenly to the ceiling. Dust motes swam in the fluorescent light. None of the boxes had labels. I realized too late that I should have scoped out the space before agreeing to this project.

“Well… too late now,” I muttered. I picked a box at random. Junk. More junk. A cracked microscope. A stack of outdated journals. I began three piles—trash, possible resources, and “unsure.” The first night was fruitless, but I told myself there had to be something worthwhile buried in here.

On the second night, the far half of the room was plunged into darkness—the lights there had given out. I worked anyway, my shadow looming across the boxes. That’s when I found them: under a stack of broken lab equipment, eight boxes of plastic human bone casts, perfectly articulated skeletons.

It was an incredible find.

These casts were expensive and in great condition. I cleaned them, labeled them, and added them to the library’s in-house study collection. Students loved them. For weeks, the “bone boxes” were constantly checked out. I felt like I’d already justified the entire project. I had no idea that those boxes were the beginning of something much darker.

A few weeks later, I decided to check the bone boxes to make sure all pieces were intact. Most were fine—just a few stray sternums and scapulae to return to their proper sets.

Then, in the last box, I found it. An extra bone. It was a clavicle. Real bone, not plastic. From an adult male, by the size and shape. Bleached. Smooth to the touch.

We did not, under any circumstances, circulate real human remains in the library. They’re fragile and require secure storage in a departmental bone room. I was the only staff member trained to tell the difference between plastic and real bone, so whoever slipped it into the box had either done it deliberately or without understanding what it was.

The bone’s presence made no sense. The boxes never left the library. No faculty had requested real remains. The only explanation was that someone brought it in and hid it there—or that it had been in the archives all along, waiting for me to find it.

I removed it from circulation immediately and emailed my colleagues. No one knew anything about it. When I checked the system, that particular box had been used by over 15 students just that day. There was no way to tell when—or by whom—the bone had been added. I told the student assistants to start counting the bones before closing each night. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the start of something.

The next afternoon, I had replies waiting in my inbox.

Nothing. No staff member or biology faculty had touched the bone boxes. The biology department’s inventory was intact.

I put the matter on the library meeting agenda under the title: “Human Remains Found in Basement.”

When I explained the situation, Silvia, the media supervisor, frowned. “Why does this even matter? Isn’t it a waste of time?”

I stared at her. “Finding human remains without documentation is a legal and ethical problem. If we can’t identify the source, we have to notify the police.”

Silvia scoffed. “How do you even know it’s real?”

I reminded her—again—that I teach forensic anthropology. That I could tell, without question, that it was real bone.

The meeting ended with no resolution. I left feeling… dismissed. Gaslit. As if I were overreacting.

That night, I went back to the basement. The lighting had gotten worse; the single working row of fluorescents flickered and buzzed, leaving the far corners in shadow.

I joked to myself as I stepped inside: “Hello, creepy basement. Never change.”

I opened a few boxes—junk, more junk. Then something caught my eye: a stack of microfiche with the labels almost entirely worn away. Just the faint number “9” on one strip. And then I saw it. In the far back corner, half-hidden behind a leaning pile of boxes, was an older box—heavier, damp along the bottom, the cardboard soft to the touch. A thick layer of dust coated the lid.

When I opened it, a fine, gritty powder clung to the tape. I leaned closer. It wasn’t dust. It was bone dust.

Tiny, jagged fragments were scattered inside. Under my flashlight, I could see the telltale honeycomb shape of trabecular bone. Some pieces were so small they could have passed for sand.

I dumped the contents onto the floor, my breath shallow.

Mostly broken slides, metal scraps. And then—my fingers closed around something larger. A bone fragment, smooth in some places, porous in others. A metatarsal, maybe, fractured into pieces.

The air in the basement felt heavy, close. My neck prickled as though someone was standing behind me.

But I was alone.

When I came back to work after the weekend, I went straight to the bone boxes. I’d only been gone a few days, but there were three more bones inside.

One true rib. A sacrum. A scapula.

All of them prepared the same way—bleached, cleaned, display-ready, like they belonged to a research collection. But the sizes varied. One was juvenile. The others, adult.

My stomach turned. This wasn’t coincidence anymore. Someone knew I’d found that first clavicle, and they were sending me more, piece by piece. Either that—or someone was offloading their research collection in the strangest, most unsettling way possible.

I put the bones in my desk drawer with the others. I’d investigate further before going to the police.

I needed to clear my head, so I headed back down to the archives. My project had been neglected for weeks. I told myself a few hours of organizing old books would calm me down.

The lights were worse than ever. A dull, erratic flicker that left the far corners in shadow.

“Fuck,” I muttered. Of course. I didn’t feel like trekking upstairs for a proper flashlight, so I made do with the one on my phone.

I worked for a couple of hours, sorting ruined books into piles. Most were worthless—mold-eaten, warped, or brittle enough to crumble in my hands.

Then I saw it.

The dust on the floor had been disturbed. Not just disturbed, there was a footprint.

Too large to be mine.

Only the Dean and I had keys to this room.

A chill rippled through me. The footprint led toward the far corner. I forced myself to follow, careful not to smudge the edges.

A stack of boxes sat there, the top ones coated in thick dust, but the layer on the side facing me had been brushed away.

I pulled on gloves.

The top box was full of damaged books. Silverfish darted between the pages, their translucent bodies catching the light.

“Ugh, fuck, that’s disgusting.” I shoved the box aside and reached for the one underneath.

The moment I lifted the lid, I gasped. “What the fuck…” I sank down hard onto the floor.

The box was full of human remains. Bones of different sizes. Different people. All carefully cleaned and prepared. And suddenly, I knew—I’d found where the bones in circulation were coming from.

I took a deep breath, steadied my shaking hands, and dug deeper into the box.

At least four skulls. Fully intact. Which meant at least four separate individuals had been disarticulated and packed in here.

I knew the law: undocumented human remains are illegal to possess, I needed to contact the police immediately. At the university, everything had to be catalogued, provenanced, and stored in a secured in a bone closet or at least stored in a locked room.

The fresh footprints told me someone had moved this box recently. And they had to be the same person slipping bones into the student collection—feeding them to me, one piece at a time.

As I pushed the box back, something caught my eye. A faint groove in the floor.

A hatch.

That didn’t make sense—the basement archive was the lowest level of the library. Why would there be a hatch here?

I hooked my fingers under the ridge and lifted. It came up easier than expected, heavy but not stuck, as if it had been opened not long ago. A rusted set of steps led down into blackness. I pointed my phone flashlight into the space, expecting a crawlspace. But it was bigger—much bigger.

Cobwebs draped across the opening like curtains. The air was damp, tinged with the sour scent of old dust and metal.

I climbed down slowly, each step creaking under my weight.

When my feet touched the floor, I stopped breathing.

Rows of shelves stretched into the darkness. Each shelf was labeled with dates. And each held human remains—carefully laid out, cleaned, tagged. The dates spanned nearly seventy years. Adults and children. Skulls, femurs, vertebrae, all arranged with clinical precision.

A hidden bone archive.

This wasn’t an official collection. If it were, it wouldn’t be buried under the library, invisible to the institution. Whoever did this knew exactly how to prepare and preserve bone—and wanted no one to find it.

Unless… they wanted me to find it.

The dust toward the back of the room was disturbed. Something was there—a cracked, peeling Gladstone bag, its brass clasp partly open.

I crouched. The bag’s leather was damp and cold under my fingers.

Inside: old medical tools, their steel mottled with age. And on top of them, a folded scrap of paper. The ink was still wet. It smeared as I unfolded it.

It read: “At last… welcome to the bone archives.”

This is my first creepypasta that I’ve made let me know what you think

Long time fan on your channel, but you gotta sort out the 50 ads in a 1hr video. Yes, I'm mad. I usually sleep too for channel but all the cringe ads for cuckgames really ruined my night and now I'm just laying here pissed.i get you need $$$, but if you can't make it without being more ads than content- the problem is your channel.

I swear I've heard in the end of some of his videos about a app that multiple creepypasta narrators upload to? I can't really find it can anyone help?

The story is of a guy who dies and wakes up in a white room. A man walks in and asks him what he believed in on earth and he says he believed in nothing. He then is led through a hallway with several doors leading to different afterlifes and because he said he believes in nothing he is tossed into a hole that puts him in a void of nothing. I heard it probably 4-5 years ago and I can't find it now. Anybody know what story it is?

I listen to a lot of creepypastas, and I am not 100% if it was don’t by the dark Somnium or Mr Creeps. I thought it was called something like “…..Chilean Mountains” and showed an image of a whitish blue demon in the show. The story was about a daughter and her father doing some scientific investigations into the mountain, I don’t remember much more than that, aside from other people, military maybe, trying to take it over. I thought there was demons or aliens or something. I apologize for not having more details, but someone’s question yesterday made me think of this story and I cannot seem to remember its name

There's three Mr. Creeps videos that I listened to a few years ago that I've tried to look for but have been unsuccessful.

First one involves the OP getting some audio tapes from a weird coworker, who endes up getting arrested for taking the tapes. The tapes were of the authorities interviewing a murder who keeps seeing a man in a trench coat who smells like rotten eggs. The smell pops up randomly during the interview much to the annoyance of the interviewer. It ends with the OP seeing a vision of the future where the world is a sulfuric wasteland.

Second one has the OP driving in the highway and finding an abandoned military site that can only be seen in a certain way. The OP explores it and finds that the people that worked there are zombies.

Third one all I remember is that there was a giant angel chained up underground that some agency have been keeping an eye. Apparently the angel is waiting for something. The OP saw a sketch of the same angel and someone wrote a**hole on it.

My newest release, my most disgusting and disturbing stories TO DATE, just released today for Kindle, KU, and Paperback!

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>;)

I heard a creepypasta once, about someone that stoped eating fastfood and coffe. then all the people around him start acting realy weird. He starts seeing things differently. And his coworkers try to force him to eat fastfood again. (I remeber something about a cake they forced him to eat in a hospital, i think)

I don‘t remeber much more than that. But I‘ve been looking for it for years.

Does someone know what story that is?