Walking home alone wasn't something I was very excited about. Especially at this time of night. If only my pussy boyfriend had walked me home. Hell, I had eluded my parents just to come see him. The least he could do was walk me home.

It was midsummer, but the temperature didn't reflect it. A chilling breeze had raised the short hairs on the back of my neck. My thin long sleeved shirt and jeans weren't enough to keep me, or anybody else, warm on a night like this.

My walk home was accompanied by a haunting silence and fearful thoughts. The streets were empty, and the only light was a faint glow provided by the moon and stars, so far away.

I was almost a block from my house when I heard a mysterious stirring just behind me. My feet had stopped moving, freezing in place with fear. It might have been an animal...or the wind? Or maybe, it was my boyfriend, coming to rescue me from the dark.

I didn't want to consider what it could be.

Turning around, I released a few words. “Bobby? Is that you?” My voice stopped short, the cold thieving the few words I'd let out.

No response.

I turned back toward my destination, and continued on. My gate was rushed now, as I was not going to fall victim to whoever was following shortly behind.

The air seemed to grow colder, suffocating me with a fresh blanket of fear. I felt my feet carry me faster, almost to the point of running.

“Hey, Jenna.” A voice whispered from behind me.

My legs stopped short, fear and anxiety freezing them in place. I slowly turned around in response to my name. It still could have been Bobby.

“Bobby, what are you doing?” I yelled out, coughing for more oxygen. When I was scared, I tended to release all present air in my lungs. Which, wasn't a very good thing.

I couldn't make out another word before he grabbed me. It was a man who came from behind, furthermost to my house. He held around my chest and shoved a gloved hand into my mouth to muffle my cries for help.

The strong arms restraining me wouldn't budge. No matter how much I struggled or fought, I couldn't get free. I bit down hard on the man's hand that intruded my mouth, hoping to cause him enough pain to the point he'd release me.

I felt a needle poke my side, or was it a knife? I couldn't tell. After a few moments, my thoughts began to leave me. Fear and pain escaping with them. My panic, however, remained. I kept fighting, kept struggling to get away from the mysterious stalker.

Newly formed tears clouded my vision, making it nearly impossible to see. The dark sidewalk just ahead of me was the extent of my vision. Then, something else came into view.

The second man was just ahead, approaching with a small white cloth drenched in a putrid liquid grasped in his right hand. My heart pumped faster with each step he took, adrenaline fueling my fight even more, which was completely useless against my restrainer's strength.

The approaching man now stood before me, clothed in a large black sweatshirt with the hood's shadow covering the topmost half of his face. I could see nothing of him but his lips, that just happened to be curled into a wicked grin.

He held up the cloth, pressing it tightly against my mouth and nose. The scent was unpleasant, and caused my eyes to droop and my vision to falter, within seconds of impact.

I struggled more, my fight slowly weakening. His hood had fallen back down, revealing his face.

I could only manage one more thought before I slipped from consciousness.

It wasn't Bobby.

Lessin is an island located just outside New York, in the east river. It was home to a small village. But, to this very day, the island remains uninhabited.

There was a breakout of smallpox during the year of 1885. With the arrival of the new disease on the island, the leaders decided it would be best to quarantine the entire island.

Nobody got in. Nobody got out.

During the quarantine, the death rate had skyrocketed. Everyone had just assumed it was small pox, but it wasn't.

There was a small mental institution within the deep forestry of the island. When the island was closed, many businesses -including hospital and said institution-.

With all the staff gone, three patients managed an escape. They all the happened to be violent maniacs.

And they blamed the small pox
  Only one thing plagued the mind of six year old Mathew Castler as he laid under the small bed in a dark room. He was going to die. Memories of the few words his mother slipped to him after she left him under there replayed in his mind like an amateur movie with a repetitive theme. "Stay here, be quiet, I love you."

  Before his current stance, he was in the family room with his mother, father, and his four younger siblings. The large family sat on the torn up couch, reeking of cigarette smoke, watching a movie on the small television that they could afford. They all sat in silence, watching Dr Suess's The Grinch. Due to the fact Christmas was around the corner, they decided to watch strictly Christmas-based movies to fit the season.   Uncomfortably situated in the very middle of the couch, Mathew's mouth lolled open, watching The Grinch sing about stealing Christmas from all the innocent Whos.

  A trashy car sped in front of the small, three bedroom house, stopping with a screech. The sound causing everybody in the room to freeze. It sort or resembled a small kin of mice, freezing in fear as they fall into a trap, knowing their fate.

  Mathew could see his father whisper into his mother's ear. He could hardly hear the slightly audible words the man slipped to his wife. "Hide the kids- it's the Crips."

  The Crips were the rivals of the Bloods, a gang in LA where Mathew and his family lived. Apparently they belonged to the Bloods, causing them to be a target for the evil men outside their front door.

  Shutting off the lights and television, the tall, buff man left the couch to barricade the front door. The woman hurried all the children into the "master" bedroom.

  Stuffing the four youngest into the closet, she stood there for a moment. Unable to tear her eyes from the small children, /her/ children. Tears flooded her vision, causing her to back away. Slowly turning from the youngsters, she looked at her oldest son, Mathew. Ushering him under the bed, she closed the door of the closet, slipping her final words to the trembling kids. Locking the door, she grabbed a small handgun from the desk drawer. Before walking back out of the room, she gazed at her oldest son, quivering with fear under the discolored bed.

  "Stay here, be quiet, I love you." She mumbled, disappearing out of the room.

  Now, Mathew just laid there, unable to move. Fear flooding his nerves. He felt trapped. Like somebody stuck on an island, full of dangers with no way out.


 Mathew gasped hearing the loud pounds erupting from the front door of the house. A small whimper escaped from the closet across the room. Mathew pushed his hands against his ears, squeezing with all his might to drown out the horrifying screams and gunshots from the living room. Muffled cries from the closet caught the men's attention.

  With a simple kick, the door of the master bedroom fell to the floor. The noise caused the children in the closet to yelp, in attempt to hush themselves. Standing over the door, two dark skinned men looked around the room for the source of the noise. They wore low hanging jeans and black sweatshirts three-sizes too large. Navy blue bandannas covered the bottom half of their faces, giving them the look of a common juvenile delinquent, bloodthirsty and evil.

  As they walked from the doorway, Mathew could see into the living room down the hall. On the ground, motionless, was his mother. Her eyes wide as if she were looking at him. Further examination of her face, her mouth was open like she was releasing an ear-splitting scream. Tears filled Mathew's eyes as he came to realization; his mother, the woman who cared for him, loved him, watched over him.. was dead. An emptiness filled him, something which he'd never experienced before.

  BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM! Four gunshots carried through the air, nearly deafening the child. He timidly turned his head towards the closet. The door was opened, revealing the four small children inside. Mathew silently gasped, throwing his hands to his mouth at the sight of his siblings.
  Each child was silent, folded over on the ground. A large pool of blood escaped from them, causing a large puddle that spread around the floor like a pot of soup being poured into a small plate.
  Mathew fought his urge to scream.
  One of the two men dipped his gloved hand into the pool of blood, wiping it across the wall. He continued doing this until muffled sirens could be heard, growing louder every second. After finishing his /masterpiece/, he stepped back, eyeing it proudly. The second man pulled the other, motioning towards the door. As quickly as they could, they both ran out of the house, speeding away.
  Cops entered the small room, trying not to look at the dead children inside the closet. Mathew, completely safe and alive, slowly crawled out from under the bed. They ran two him, asking all kinds of questions. Instead of providing answers, he fell to the ground, unconscious.
Thanks for the nice comments and all, but I think I'll just remove the photos! Y'all need to focus on the creepypastas. Not the Ginger. 
I was sitting alone in my room, browsing the internet; as usual. Once I'd had enough, I shut down my laptop and grabbed one of my favorite books.

Falling nose-deep in Max Brook's World War Z, my attention span was fully drowned in the Oral History Of The Zombie War. Zombies were kinda my thing, just the same as many other teenagers. We were all ready for the apocalypse.

My interest never fell short when it came to the paranormal occurrences. Just hearing the word sent my curiosity into a rampage mode. I was the type of girl to be first in line for those Paranormal Activity movies.

Mind being exhausted from an hour of reading, I gently shut the book and set it on my night side stand. Leaning upward, I let myself tumble off the bed. I felt my weight hit the floor, my ears catching a soft thud created by the fall.

Stumbling to my feet, I exited my room, walking to the kitchen. Switching the light on, I noticed something out of place. Something unusual...something that shouldn't be there.

It was my old camera.

Tilting my head in curiosity, I picked it up. My thumb instinctively jammed the power button. But, it was pointless. The thing was ancient, and the battery cartridge was vacant.

However, it turned on.

My eyes narrowed in shock. Previously ignored questions returned. What was my camera doing down here? Also, how is this thing even functional?

I rechecked the battery cartridge. Still, empty. How could this be? I thought to myself, frozen in shock. Trying to shake off a uneasy feeling, I scrolled through the images. There were two.

Both of me.

They were both of me, looking at my laptop, it seemed. The photos were taken from a side angle, but I had no memory of a camera being stuck in my face. Maybe it had been taken a long time ago....

I checked the time-of-capture.

It read an hour ago.
On January 7th, 2007, in a high ranked community in California, 911 operators received a rather unusual call, regarding a missing person.

Transcript is as follows

Operator: This is 911, what's your emergency?
Caller (Unknown): I'm dumping her! Straight into the river!
Operator: Excuse me sir, what is going on?
Caller (Unknown): Laughs hysterically That girl, Jenna! The missing one!
Operator: Is she injured?
Caller (Unknown): She will be soon! 
Operator: Sir is this a jo- Call ended

Soon after the call was ended, the operator and police department were able to discover the location of the call, A small river, just outside the town.

No body was recovered.
The darkness has always produced unusual fear in my heart. The thought of another being, lingering just out of my sight. Waiting until I close my eyes to pounce on my unprepared, cowardly, and vulnerable self.

It waits under my bed, breathing softly. Its shallow breaths are disguised as my own, or even my sisters'. However, they are not. They belong to the monster.
Who has the upper hand in this situation?
Not me.
Eyes are typically normal for most living things; but they prove haunting for no longer living things. Even after one is dead, the eyes may remain open. The past's soul remains on the inside, spying out through the eye. The reasons are unfathomable, and will never be answered. Why would the dead linger, just to look out the eye?
    Please keep your comments relevant to the text. Otherwise, they will be removed.

    Don't ask.

    This is only for me to better my writing. Comment aren't exactly necessary, yes I'm implying that somewhat might read this, but are accepted. Be as critical as you may, but I'm not going to quit this. It may just help.


    June 2013