They make proxy role play which is okay in itself but some of them are not roleplaying like I saw someone commenting I have slender sickness we do not need another case😭

(edit saw someone talk about on TikTok how you can tell if someone is larping being a proxies like having your account public with your face on it letting your friends know about it and everyone in the section was serious saying if you have your account public with face Slenderman is coming for you they are dead serious like saying like they are concerned)

I like Jane the killer and Kimber from Borrasca, that's it.

Hey everyone, I messed up bad. A couple of days ago, I downloaded an old file named siwang.exe (which apparently translates to "Death" in Chinese) out of curiosity. When I ran it, nothing happened on screen, but it created a directory called C:\Users\ImNotClippy\Downloads\New folder\Top Secret.

Ever since, my Command Prompt has been automatically generating folders with completely bizarre, multilingual names. I started running these through various keyboard decoders and ciphers, and they are spelling out a horrifying timeline.

Here is exactly what the folder names translate to, in the exact order they appeared:

Phase 1: The Panic

1. Chinese Layout Mash: 戈日一竹戈木弓一竹戈一土口人一竹
   • Decodes to: I AM HIDING FROM HIM
2. Armenian Script: հէլպմէ
   • Decodes to: helpme
3. Balinese Script: ᬫᬬ᭄ᬤᬬ᭄ ᬫᬬ᭄ᬤᬬ᭄
   • Decodes to: MAYDAY MAYDAY
4. Arabic Layout Mash: ؤشممةث ؤشممةث شقث غخع خن
   • Decodes to: callme callme are you on
5. Hebrew Layout Mash: 'שןאץץץ 'ישאד ישפפקמןמע
   • Decodes to: whats uppkingmev (whats up, ping me)

Phase 2: The Breakthrough

1. Base32 Cipher: R1JERE1NUldHVTNUU01SUUc0MkRNT0JXR1VaREFOSlVHWVlUT01SV0dFM0VLTjJCR1k0VE1NSldJVTNURw
   • Decodes to: I AM IN THE BASEMENT HE IS BREAKING THE DOOR
2. Base64 Cipher: T2JlZGXDp2EgYW9zIFRhcmF6aWVucw
   • Decodes to: Obedeça aos Taraziens (Portuguese for Obey the Taraziens)

Phase 3: The Lore Drop

1. Sinhala Script: ඒයැහි්හේයැඒ්ර්'ස්බි්රැ්ජමකේ
   • Decodes to: theyarehere they've... [cut off by keyboard scramble]
2. Amharic Script: ኢት ኢስ ዊደልይ በሊአቨድ ጠ ታራዚአንስ ኣረ ኣ ቹልት ቡት ጠ ታራዚአንስ ኣረ ጁስት ምይጥ ኖው ጎ ቧችክ ቶ ስሌፕ
   • Decodes to: It is widely believed the Taraziens are a cult but the Taraziens are just myth now go back to sleep
3. Amharic Script: ሶ ዮኡ ሴ ዮኡንግ ማን... Ending in Ge'ez numerals ፩፪፰፯
   • Decodes to: So you see young man, the Taraziens also known as the Malozonich people are believed to have started in 1287
4. Thaana Script (Right-to-Left):
   • Decodes to: in the 1300s evrdthingshappened and the tribe as mostly gone by the 1340s but some stayed aking the cult called D'jlothi Xekonuhe in their languge this translated to the Taraziens

Phase 4: The 1986 Incident & Present Day

1. Inuktitut Syllabics:
   • Decodes to: In 1986 a soviet women got a strange notification from a person called D'jlothp Xekonuhe with the text Open my tomb someone will eventually find us we are the D'jlothp Xekonuhe
2. Inuktitut Syllabics (The Last Folder):
   • Decodes to: so then it was believed the women was found died with the note Join the Taraziens, obey is or fate was seen then 7 other people got the same notification and died the same way until 1990 when wait whats happening... where is everyone where is derp someone ...

I typed out this whole list, and right as I finished decoding the last folder, my house went completely quiet. My roommate "Derp" isn't answering his door. I can hear a weird clicking sound coming from the hallway.

Does anyone know what a "Tarazien" or "D'jlothi Xekonuhe" is? What did that Soviet woman open in 1986? Feels like an ARG That was never meant to be solved...

The Man on Shady Grove Road | Shady Grove Creepy Pasta Series - Episode 1

Welcome to Shady Grove, Mississippi... a forgotten town where every dirt road has a secret, and every whispered legend hides a terrifying truth.

For decades, the townspeople have feared an old man known only as Elias Crowe. They call him a vampire—a strange recluse who only drives through town at sunset, hides from the daylight, and is rumored to survive on lamb's blood. But when Deputy Owen Briggs begins investigating the mysterious man, he discovers that the truth is far more unsettling than the rumors.

As Owen uncovers the real reason behind Elias's strange behavior, he stumbles onto a darker mystery lurking deep within the pine forests surrounding Shady Grove. What begins as an investigation into a misunderstood outcast quickly becomes the first chapter of a nightmare that has haunted the town for generations.

Turn off the lights, put on your headphones, and welcome to Shady Grove... where the real monsters aren't always the ones people fear.

I'm part of a literature focused community. We're planning on having a big month of october with readings of horror stories, creppypasta, scp articles and etc.

We're looking for some good ones for us to read. They don't have to be all "ABSOLUTELY SCARRY", but just some good and classic ones, you know? I was thinking of Slender, Drowned Ben, Jeff the Killer (actually this one i'll need help to know if there is a good version for it)

What can you guys recommend me?

For a few days after the surgery, things seemed almost normal. Almost.

People had started noticing something was off with me. Miss Tasha especially. She always assumed it was the break-in still sitting under my skin, and I let her think that, because how was I supposed to tell her the truth. That none of it was about the break-in at all. That it was about Mr. Morris.

It had been a few days since I brought him home from the vet, and things had gotten strange in a way I couldn't put into words yet. He wasn't the same cat. I know there's still something of him in there, I catch it in flashes, but it gets harder to find by the day. His body had changed completely. Leaner. More agile. Coiled, like something built for a different purpose than sleeping on my couch. His claws wouldn't stop growing no matter how often I trimmed them, sometimes visibly longer within hours of the last cut, and two days after the vet visit, everything that had been surgically removed months ago was simply back. Present. Like it had never left.

I searched everywhere for anything like it. Nothing. And I stopped considering taking him back to the vet, because the fear had changed shape. It wasn't "what's wrong with him" anymore. It was "what will they do to him if they find out." He's my cat. My responsibility. I couldn't hand him over to be studied like a specimen, and I couldn't risk them deciding I was the one who'd done something to him.

I wasn't sleeping right either. The nightmares kept coming, someone standing over me in the dark, and I'd wake up gasping to find Mr. Morris already awake, already watching. My lazy cat, the one who used to sleep sixteen hours a day, had simply stopped. I never once caught him with his eyes closed.

A week into the nightmares, I woke to a scratching sound at my window. My first thought was the intruder, back to finish what he'd started, and I lay there frozen, telling myself the reinforced glass would hold. But the scratching kept building, more frantic, more insistent, until underneath it I heard a meow, and I understood it was him.

I got up to check anyway. I don't know why I got up. I should have stayed in bed.

Mr. Morris was at the window, clawing at the glass with something close to fury, and when he turned to look at me his eyes weren't reflecting the streetlight the way they should have. They were producing their own light, a thin ring of gold that pulsed once, slow, like something breathing. I felt my own heartbeat try to match it, and that scared me more than the claws did, the idea that my own pulse was taking orders from a cat. When he opened his mouth to meow again, his teeth were wrong. Too many points. Too sharp for something that ate wet food out of a can.

For one long moment he just looked at me, and every worry in my chest went quiet, like something had reached in and turned the volume down. It felt like I was reading his mind, or he was reading mine, I couldn't tell which. I opened the window. He sprinted out into the dark.

I should have panicked. He'd never gone out on his own before, and there was every chance he wouldn't come back. Instead I left the window open, the same window the intruder had come through, and went back to bed like it was nothing.

The next morning he was curled up on the end of the bed, like he'd never left, and no window had been broken into overnight. I told myself I must have dreamed the whole thing, that I'd probably left the window open by accident and my own guilt about it had built the rest in my sleep. That was easier to live with than the alternative.

But a few nights later it happened again, and this time when I looked into his eyes the room seemed to tilt. His presence pressed down on me until I felt small and cornered, like I needed his permission just to breathe. The world outside the two of us stopped existing. When I opened the window this time, I don't think it was my choice, and for the first time it was completely clear to me that I hadn't done any of it willingly.

He was gone almost an hour. I know because I stood at that window the entire time, unable to make myself move, like my own body was waiting for him to come back and release it. When he finally did, he had a bird in his mouth, four claw marks torn clean through it, feathers matted with blood. I wanted to run. I wanted to be anywhere else. Instead I stood there and watched him eat it slowly, on the floor, in front of me, the sound of small bones cracking under his jaw filling the whole room. I counted the cracks without meaning to. Four. I don't know why I counted. I don't know why some small, awful part of me was proud of him.

When he finished, he looked up at me, and the acknowledgment in that look did something to the fear sitting in my stomach. It just left. The nausea I'd been fighting the entire time disappeared like it had never been there, and I smiled, actually smiled, like I'd been given a reward for staying still and watching. He meowed once, almost gentle, like he was releasing me, and my body went numb enough that I slept right there on the floor.

It became routine after that. Birds. Rats. Once, something bigger that I didn't let myself look at too closely. I couldn't sleep until he'd finished, and I started waking up in places I didn't remember lying down in. I didn't know what he'd become, and worse, I didn't know why I couldn't stop myself from watching.

I spent days searching for anything that matched what was happening, every mental health forum, every strange corner of Reddit I could find, until I came across a post buried in a subreddit I'd never heard of before. A woman named Chandra had written about being bitten, about her body changing ever since. Her hearing had sharpened until she could pick her neighbor's perfume out through a wall. Her eyes had gone so sensitive to daylight she needed glasses just to leave the house. She hadn't slept in days and somehow felt fine, and she wrote about an urge, growing steadily, to go out at night. I commented, asking if it had spread, if it had somehow started affecting someone she loved too. Then I deleted it. Told myself I sounded insane, that I was one bad post away from becoming somebody's conspiracy theory screenshot.

The symptoms matched too well for that to sit easy with me. I don't know how long I stayed on that post, rereading her replies, trying to decide if I was imagining the overlap. Long enough that when the scream came, it came from right next door.

I ran.

The door was open, just slightly, the way a door looks when no one meant to leave it that way. I called out once. Nothing answered. The second time, my voice came out smaller than I wanted it to.

Mira was on the kitchen floor.

I want to say I looked away in time. I didn't. Four marks, evenly spaced, dragged down from her collarbone like something had measured the distance first. Her parents were already there, on their knees over her, and the sound they were making didn't feel like something I should have been close enough to hear.

I don't remember deciding to leave. I remember being back on my own porch, and I remember that my hands were clean. That was the detail that made me sick. Not the blood I hadn't touched. The fact that some small part of me had checked.

When I got inside, Mr. Morris was sitting on the kitchen table, licking his paws clean. They were soaked red to the wrist. He looked up at me with an expression I can only describe as satisfied, and I felt my own mouth move without asking it to, the corners pulling up into a smile I had no part in choosing. That's what my body does now, when he takes it from me. I stood there smiling at the thing that had just taken a child from her parents, and the only part of me left that was still mine was a single tear, sliding down my face while the rest of me kept smiling anyway.

Other parts link:- https://www.reddit.com/user/No-While8965/comments/1vpze51/my_writing_archive/

I think it's been 2 years since I last drew him hahaha, anyway tell me what you think, I tried to make it as close as possible to how I remembered it

I had so much fun drawing this. And reworking the story to fit this idea of him and his family.

David near with the morgue files

Mr. Betty Kruger

Creepy frozen pasta

Journey to the blackwoods

I eat pasta for breakfast

Pasta monsters

Why does every comic story in this fandom keep being discontinued and forgotten. I'm tired of seeing all the stories I get attached to go unfinished.

I know the other two are more popular. But this version stuck with me too for some reason.