Compact Story Emojis & Text

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Kept In Dark "I'm worried about myself," Nick said. "Maybe you should be," I told him. "Can't we turn on some lights?" "Not yet." Sometimes it's hard to tell when a friend is joking. But Nick had sounded truly nervous when he asked me to come over this afternoon, so I decided to take him seriously. "What's got you freaked out?" "I've been having dark thoughts lately." "Everyone has dark thoughts." "Not like these. They're sick, man. I don't know where they come from." "Horror movies?" "No, I don't watch those. But I've... I've also been having these crazy dreams. Really vivid. Like, apocalyptic, with demons. I'm afraid to sleep." "You have been looking kind of washed out lately," | admitted. "Maybe see a doctor?" "Wouldn't help." "Why not?" "Because there's more to it. That's why I called. I need you to tell me if you see it, too." "See what?" Nick stood up and walked to his window, where the sun glowed faintly behind cheap venetian blinds. He pointed at the floor. "Watch that spot. Right there." "The carpet?" "Just watch. Please." "Fine." The carpet looked normal, not even a stain. Then I heard Nick take a deep breath, followed by the clacking blinds as he pulled the cord to expose the sunlight. "Jeez!" I cried, yanking my feet off the ground as a dark shape came slithering forward. It disappeared directly under the couch where I sat. "Oh gosh," Nick moaned. "You saw it." "That's... impossible. Was that really your...?" "Yeah," he nodded miserably. "I've heard of being afraid of your own shadow, but why is mine scared of me? What does it know? by IPostAtMidnight

When / was younger, my uncle John was going through a divorce. He came round to our house to get some advice from my parents and at one point said he could feel the energy of two children, a boy and a girl, in one corner of the room. Soon after, four year old me walks into the room and I said "The children woke me up." My folks asked what children, so I point to the same corner uncle john mentioned and say "Those children" and everyone went pale and quiet. - cocgamer

The clown statue A couple with children were trying out a new babysitter. About an hour after they left for a night on the town, they realized they had forgotten to give her their cell phone number, so one of them called her. After she wrote down the number, the babysitter asked if she could watch satellite TV in their bedroom. She had just put the children to bed and wanted to watch a particular show. (The parents didn't want their children watching too much garbage, so the living room TV did not have satellite channels.) Well of course she could watch TV in their room, they replied. The babysitter had one other request: could she put a sheet or blanket over the clown statue that was in the bedroom? It kind of made her nervous. "Take the children and go to the neighbors," said the parent. "We don't have a clown statue, we'll call the police." The police caught the clown as he was running through the neighborhood.

Please no d£ath threats to ppl who make fanfic thx and have a nice day

There's No Reason to Be Afraid By Reddit user by whoeverfightsmonster ~ When my sister Betsy and I were kids, our family lived for awhile in a charming old farmhouse. We loved exploring its dusty corners and climbing the apple tree in the backyard. But our favorite thing was the ghost. We called her Mother, because she seemed so kind and nurturing. Some mornings Betsy and I would wake up, and on each of our nightstands, we'd find a cup that hadn't been there the night before. Mother had left them there, worried that we'd get thirsty during the night. She just wanted to take care of us. Among the house's original furnishings was an antique wooden chair, which we kept against the back wall of the living room. Whenever we were preoccupied, watching TV or playing a game, Mother would inch that chair forward, across the room, toward us. Sometimes she'd manage to move it all the way to the center of the room. We always felt sad putting it back against the wall. Mother just wanted to be near us. Years later, long after we'd moved out, I found an old newspaper article about the farmhouse's original occupant, a widow. She'd murdered her two children by giving them each a cup of poisoned milk before bed. Then she'd hanged herself. The article included a photo of the farmhouse's living room, with a woman's body hanging from a beam. Beneath her, knocked over, was that old wooden chair, placed exactly in the center of the room.

CRYBABY Late last night I woke up to the sound of someone crying. It was an eerie sound, and surprisingly loud as well. Although I wanted to get up and go check it out, I was a bit scared and tired so l ignored it by hiding under the covers. Today at breakfast I told my roommate about it. "That was me." She replied with a tone of fear in her voice. What a relief, I thought. "I was crying because I saw a... a thing watching you while you were asleep." @Death.and.Terror

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୧⍤⃝💐

༘⋆🌷🫧💭₊˚ෆ

stars,flowers,love💕

😍

Somewhere, on a rutted, nearly impassible back road in rural Monroe, Connecticut, stands what locals call the House of the Faceless People. This ancient farmhouse is enclosed within a forest of gnarled, bent, and bony-looking trees, and all of its windows are boarded up. If visited at night, the house will be entirely dark. However, on certain occasions a dim kerosene lamp can be seen through the slats covering one of the windows. This, it is said, is the caretaker's room. He's an old man who oversees the faceless ones. Though he is occasionally spotted working around the yard or chasing away cars that pass by too slowly, his faceless charges remain nothing but a mystery. Some believe the house's inhabitants are the fabled Melonheads, however, no one truly knows who, or what, can be found inside the House of the Faceless People…

+ The Operation On the farthest point of Long Island, the last scrap of land that still counts as New York, there sits a tremendous, abandoned building. Protected by its own isolated location, there is also at any given time two to three Security Guards there. However, if one approaches the cast iron gates on the night of December 4th, you will see that on this night, even those few security guards refuse to work. The gates are left unlocked, and the wind will be utterly still, a nearly opaque fog filling the peninsula. Go directly to the main doors and step within, there will be a single long hallway, the end occluded by that fog. If you look to either side upon entering, you will see a modern operating room through a glass door. The further in that you walk, the older the equipment will get and the more old fashioned the doctors will be dressed. When you can finally come upon the end of the hallway, the screams of the patients will be nearly deafening. The hall will terminate in an open door leading to a single wooden table where a man in woolen medical clothing, stained brown from blood, will be bent over a corpse. The body's face will be covered, and the man will turn silently, screwing the top onto a cloudy jar of liquid, filled to the brim. He will hand this abnormally heavy object to you, before turning back to his work. Instantly, you will be outside of those cast iron gates. From that point on, disease and injury will never affect you, but if you ever open that cloudy jar and pull out the contents... you will find a heart, pulsing and beating loudly in your palm. A sudden feeling of horror and revulsion will pass through you as realization strikes, that you have just pulled your own living heart from your chest.

It has been said that the definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results". I understand the sentiment behind the saying, but it's wrong. I entered the building on a bet. I was strapped for cash and didn't buy into the old legends of the hotel to begin with, so fifty bucks was more than enough to get me do it. It was simple. Just reach the top floor, the 45th floor, shine my flashlight from a window. The hotel was old and broken, including the elevator, so that meant hiking up the stairs. So up the stairs I went. As I reached each platform, I noted the old brass plaques displaying the floor numbers. 15, 16, 17, 18. I felt a little tired as I crept higher, but so far, no ghosts, no cannibals, no demons. Piece of cake. I can't tell you how happy I was as I entered that last stretch of numbers. 1 joyfully counted them aloud at each platform. 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 44. 1 stopped and looked back down the stairs. I must have miscounted, so I con- tinued up. 44. One more flight. 44. And then down ten flights. 44. Fifteen flights. 44. And so it's been for as long as I can remember. So really, insanity isn't doing something repeatedly and expecting different results. It is knowing, that the results will never ever change; that each door leads to the same staircase, to the same number. It's realizing you no longer fall asleep. It's, not knowing, whether you've been running for days or weeks or years. It's when the sobbing slowly turns into laughter

Eloise ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆📖

Eloise ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི ୧ ‧₊˚ 🍮 ⋅ ☆📖

All Monsters are Human You've always had a slightly ridiculous phobia of mirrors. It's never interfered with your life before, except in small and completely inconsequential ways. You'd close your eyes during a middle school session of Bloody Mary, would rush past them in a dark hallway, things any red blooded American raised on a steady diet of horror and gore would call more habit than oddity. One night, late, you're getting ready to go out with some friends. You feel grimy, so you all decide to get ready at your apartment where you can clean up with your own products. Ev- eryone's hanging out, taking pictures, and gonerally having fun as you decide to wash your makeup off and start fresh. You decide that the quickest way to do this is the way they show in commercials, where you get it all over with at once by splashing water over your tightly shut eyes and completely soaking your bathroom floor. You glance up quickly to be sure that your friends don't notice your moment of hesitation when it's time to close your oyes and scrub within sight of the mirror. As you rinse off your face, your eyes open to see your reflection staring back at you, which is not unusual, What is slightly off, however, is that when you go to leave, the other you does not. You stare at each other with wide eyes, waiting to see what happens next. You turn to your friends to see if they're seeing what you're seeing to find their grins growing wider, too wide to be quite human. Their eyes turn as black as coal, and they start to walk forward. Your reflection and your friends reflections start to scream. Your friends lunge for- ward towards their dopplegangers. You always knew you were on the wrong side. As your oyos begin to burn in an entirely sick, ploasant way, your grin stretches wide. Too wide. 😈

Ghost ×͜×

I Am From Mountains I am from mountains, at least that’s what I keep telling myself. I started skiing 3 years ago, and I thought I had mastered everything. I could carve turns, I could ski backwards, I could even do some tricks on small jumps, and I could do almost all the hardest runs at Mt.Hood Meadows, where I normally ski. Today though, this was different. I had been so excited to go on this vacation, heading to a mountain that apparently has amazing skiing. Now that I started skiing however I wasn’t quite so sure. I stood at the top of a warm up run, and already I could feel my skis sticking to the much thicker than usual snow, it was soft beneath my feet, and whenever I wanted to turn, I would just sink down on one foot and lose my balance, making it extremely difficult to do anything. Okay, here we go! I started down, and immediately I found it very hard to balance, not just to the side, but I also felt myself falling backwards as the powder grabbed my skis. Suddenly, Poof! I fell down, after only making one turn, looking like a beginner. “Jason, are you okay?” My dad asks, gliding through the snow effortlessly as he always does. “Yep, all good,” I reply, not wanting for him to think that I am struggling. I got back up, luckily my skis didn’t fall off, and I am able to start skiing again. This time I make three awkward turns before falling again, and again, and again. Soon, my dad caught on that I, in fact, was not doing well, and that I did need help. “In order to ski powder,” he told me, “You must try and put your weight evenly between your skis, not just put weight on one at a time like normal. That way you can stay on top of the thick snow easier.” That had made some sense to me, but not a lot. How am I supposed to turn if I can’t put weight on my skis? Just as expected, when I tried it, I lost control and fell face first into the snow, losing both of my skis and poles in the process. After I manage to put my skis back on, I look up at the beautiful peak of Mt. Baker, with all of its ridges, peaks, and trees, and I realize today might not be as fun as I thought. As it turns out, the start of this day was not fun at all. Not only was I unable to ski in the powder and enjoy it, I also got increasingly more wet and exhausted the more basic runs we went down. Before I knew it