CreepyPasta Delight

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Author of story - ⁠https://www.reddit.com/user/David_Hallow/

Original Post - ⁠https://www.reddit.com/r/horrorstories/comments/1uhd66z/i_quit_commercial_diving_after_what_i_saw_at/

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Author of story (Alex Grass) - https://www.infernaltramps.com/

Infernal Tramps : Tales of Weird Terror - https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GSN4BX4Y?lv=shuf&channelId=500&plpRedirect=mhFallback⁠

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Author of story - https://www.reddit.com/user/manen_lyset/Original Post - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/5j6p8x/a_package_marked_return_to_sender/

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Author of story - ⁠https://www.reddit.com/user/gamalfrank/?screen_view_count=3&sort=top&t=year

Original Post - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1qemmnp/my_father_had_one_rule_we_were_forbidden_from/

Original Title - My father had one rule: we were forbidden from acknowledging my mother. I broke it, and now I understand why.

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Author -⁠⁠ https://www.reddit.com/user/manen_lyset/⁠Original

post - ⁠⁠https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/3dblqz/i_shouldnt_have_freed_the_girl_i_found_chained_in/⁠

Original title - I shouldn't have freed the girl I found chained in the shed





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Author - https://www.reddit.com/user/lets-split-up/

Original post - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1lqv3w3/i_saw_a_creepy_painting_for_sale_online_did_not/

Original title - I saw a creepy painting for sale online. Did NOT order it, but it arrived on my doorstep and now I can’t get rid of it…





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I walk the same loop every night. Same three streets, same forty-five minutes, same stretch of sidewalk past the house on Linden where the hedge comes right up to the curb. I've been doing it for eleven years. I know every crack in the concrete. I'm telling you that so you understand — I would have noticed her before. I would have noticed a face in the leaves. I would have noticed the old woman on the porch. I noticed them both on the same Tuesday in April. Now there's a space in the hedge, and it's waiting.

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Cole moved to Las Vegas with nothing but a failed plan and a one-bedroom apartment off Boulder Highway. When a woman named Dahlia matched with him on a Thursday night and disappeared by morning, she left behind a mark on his skin — small, warm, spreading. The doctors have a name for what Cole believes is happening to his body. They're wrong. What began as an itch beneath the surface has grown into something deliberate, something architectural, something that knows exactly where it's going. Cole is writing this from a hospital bed. He's running out of time to be believed.

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I bought the house because it was cheap and I needed to disappear for a while. Five acres of Ozark hill country, a gravel road, and neighbors just close enough to wave at. For three weeks, it was everything I needed. Then the kids next door found a sinkhole behind the property line, and something about them started to change. The angle of their heads. The timing of their movements. A smell on the evening wind like chalk and old pennies. I left before I understood what I'd seen. I'm two hundred miles away now. It isn't far enough.

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I've run the I-40 corridor sixty times. Oklahoma City to Albuquerque, straight shot, nothing to it. But something followed me out of El Reno on a November night and it stayed in my mirrors for three hundred miles. It tried a broken-down car. It tried a voice on the CB — a woman, a child, freezing in the dark. It tried a rolled eighteen-wheeler with a driver crawling through the grass. Every time I didn't stop, it got a little closer. And every attempt was a little more convincing than the last. I made it through. I don't know if she did.

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I've been driving a garbage truck for fifteen years. I know what trash is supposed to feel like — and the bags at the last house on Pell Road don't feel like trash. They feel like something breathing. Every week, three bags. Every week, a little heavier. A little warmer. When the previous driver disappeared and left his thermos still warm on the dashboard, nobody called it what it was. They just reassigned the route. Then I found his notes in the logbook. Four words on the last entry, dated the Thursday before he vanished: She came outside today. Last week I found something on my arm. It's small. It's warm. It's getting bigger.

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Evan took the backcountry posting at Boone Creek because nobody else wanted it. Sixteen miles from the nearest paved road, no cell service, and a laminated sheet of twenty-two rules thumb-tacked above the radio. Most of them made sense. Some of them didn't. By the time he understood what Rule 16 was really for, it didn't matter anymore.

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Welcome to Skully’s Ominous Stories.A long-form horror story compilation featuring atmospheric, unsettling stories meant for late-night listening. These narrations focus on tension, isolation, and dread.

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Buddy's Fun Palace closed in 2003. The building has been sitting empty off Route 9 for over twenty years — boarded windows, cracked parking lot, and a faded sign with a mascot nobody wanted to remember.When a Craigslist ad offered $18/hr for overnight security, I took the job without asking questions. The owner said the building was being prepped for demolition. All I had to do was sit in a closet-sized office, watch six monitors, and make sure nobody broke in.Nobody told me what was already inside.

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Author - ⁠https://www.reddit.com/user/gamalfrank/⁠

Original story - ⁠https://www.reddit.com/r/stories/comments/1ksw8kc/i_work_on_cargo_ships_a_scarred_whale_began/

Original story title - I work on cargo ships. A scarred whale began acting erratically around us. We thought it was the danger. We were wrong. So, so wrong

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In 1994, a rancher in Utah shot a wolf six times at point-blank range. It didn't bleed. It didn't fall. It looked at him and walked away.That ranch would go on to become one of the most studied and feared locations in the world. But the thing that lives there — the thing the Navajo have known about for centuries — is far older than any ranch.Tonight, we talk about the one thing you're not supposed to talk about.

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Prisoner 1471 was sent into the blood ocean to take photographs. What he found in the dark wasn't supposed to be documented. It was supposed to consume him. It didn't. That was the problem. (This story takes place in the Iron Lung universe.)

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A desperate man takes an overnight security job at a remote Buc-ee's in West Texas — good pay, no customer interaction, just watching monitors until morning. Simple enough. But the rulebook he's handed on his first night contains instructions that don't quite make sense, and the longer he works there, the more he notices things he can't explain. Strange patterns. Strange visitors. Strange sounds beneath the floor. His coworker Mitch doesn't offer answers, only warnings. And the note in his locker makes one thing uncomfortably clear — the employees who last longest are the ones who learn not to ask questions.

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Cast

Reese - bayleaf. - https://www.instagram.com/bayleaf.makesnoise

https://bayleafmusic.bandcamp.com/album/champagne

Jamie - Skully

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Six weeks on the job. That's all I had when Reese told me never to open the bag.

She didn't explain. Not at first. Just two words — zip it. So I did.

But the man inside was warm. Not cooling-down warm. Alive warm. And when we pulled onto the highway, something in the back of the rig started talking.

It knew my name. It knew my mother's voice. It knew exactly what would make me reach for that zipper.

Eleven years on the night shift taught Reese one thing above everything else — some bodies aren't just bodies. And some calls on Machen Road don't end when the vitals go flat.

Tonight on Skully's Sinister Stories — whatever is in those bags is learning. And it's getting better at breaking the people who know the rules.

Don't open the bag.

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Six years as a park ranger at New River Gorge. I know every sound this forest makes. I know what belongs out here and what doesn't.

The claw marks were nine feet up. Bears don't reach nine feet.

The impressions in the mud looked like something had been perching above them. The scratches on the metal roof started in October. Something was settling onto it every night between two and four AM, slow and deliberate, like it didn't want to be heard.

Then one night I went outside.

Dale said it chooses someone. He didn't say what happens after.

I put in my transfer three weeks ago. I'm two hours away now. City lights. Street noise. As far from the gorge as I could get.

Last night at 2:15 AM, something settled onto my sister's roof.

It's been there every night since.

And this morning when I looked in the mirror, the blood vessels in my eyes weren't red anymore.

They were glowing.

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They don't force their way in. They knock. They ask. And every single witness describes the same thing — a cold, paralyzing dread that hits before they even understand why.

The Black-Eyed Children have been reported across the world for decades. Same behavior. Same requests. Same eyes.

In 1996, journalist Brian Bethel encountered two of them in a Texas parking lot. What happened next became one of the most documented paranormal accounts in modern history.

Tonight, Skully's Sinister Stories goes deep into the legend — the encounters, the theories, and the one rule that might keep you alive.

Never let them in.

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On the sixteenth day of a solo trip through Tokyo, a hidden market stall offered something that felt like a gift. It looked like an orange, but it felt like feverish flesh. Now, twelve days later in a quiet Philadelphia apartment, the thing on the desk is growing. It has developed a face that watches, a mouth that breathes, and jointed legs that tap against the wood in the dead of night. Every hour it expands, and every hour the narrator’s own body begins to mirror its grotesque proportions. The transaction is nearly complete.

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I started delivering for DoorDash after midnight because the tips were better. For a while, it was just drunk food and empty porches. Then the late-night orders started coming with instructions that didn't make sense — don't look at the second-floor window, don't step on the porch, close your eyes and count to ten. I followed every rule. The tips were enormous. Nothing bad happened. I thought I was safe as long as I kept following the instructions. Then an order came through at 3:14 AM. The delivery address was my apartment. The customer name was a single letter. And DoorDash support confirmed it was placed from inside my home.

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When the school district posted the position for the third time, no one else would take it. I needed the job. I took it.

Felter sits in a shallow valley in northern Ontario, four hundred people carved out of the wilderness and slowly being taken back. The children were quiet in a way that unsettled me. The church windows were painted black from the inside. Every Thursday night, the townspeople walked north toward the lake in silence — and something walked with them.

The principal warned me not to go into the woods after dark. She never warned me about what happened to the last teacher.

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Welcome to Skully's Sinister Stories Vol. 5Some things grow where they shouldn't.In this volume of Skully's Sinister Stories, we explore what happens when the body becomes something unrecognizable. A garden in rural Hokkaido that returns what was buried in it. A sewing shop in Takayama where an inheritance runs deeper than blood. A portrait studio in Koenji where the camera doesn't just capture what's there — it decides what comes next.Three Junji Ito-inspired horror stories. Three transformations that couldn't be stopped.The body is the canvas.

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Author - https://www.reddit.com/user/gamalfrank/Original Post - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1m8aygd/my_dad_spent_15_years_tending_to_the_tree_in_our/Original title - My dad spent 15 years tending to the tree in our backyard. I just cut it down, and I don't think it was a tree.

My dad planted a strange black seed in our backyard when I was ten. Within a few years, the tree it grew into was taller than our house. Within a decade, it had killed every plant in the yard, driven the animals away, and swallowed my father whole. He quit his job to sit under it. He stopped eating. He talked to it like it could hear him. The shadow it cast didn't feel like shade — it felt alive. One night, I took an axe to the trunk to save him. The sound it made when the blade hit wasn't wood. And what I found inside was far worse than what it had done to my father.

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Cast Sarah - bayleaf. - https://www.instagram.com/bayleaf.makesnoise

https://bayleafmusic.bandcamp.com/album/champagne

Jay - Skully

I took the overnight caretaker job at a rural wildlife sanctuary because I needed somewhere quiet after my divorce. Forty-seven acres of rescued animals, a cabin behind the office, and a woman named Sarah on the radio if anything went wrong. For three nights, nothing did. On the fourth night, every animal on the property stopped moving and faced the same direction. Then they turned — all of them, at the same time — and Sarah told me to get inside and lock the door. Something crosses the valley every few weeks. The animals always know it's coming. The crossings are getting more frequent.

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Author - https://www.reddit.com/user/gamalfrank/

Original story - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1qs7t5r/the_most_important_rule_at_my_job_is_to_never/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Original story title - The most important rule at my job is to never create a physical record. I found what the last person in my position wrote, and I think I'm in danger.

The job seemed simple. Study a photograph for eight hours. Memorize every detail. Watch it burn. No records, no questions, no exceptions. The salary was more than my parents made combined, and I was desperate enough not to ask why they needed someone with a photographic memory to stare at old images until they were ash. I told myself it was archival work. I told myself the dreams were just stress. I told myself the man I recognized from a 1970s photograph — the one who ran when he saw my face — was a coincidence. The notes I found hidden in my colleague's locker say otherwise. They're getting out.

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Dr. Elena Marsh spent fifteen years applying scientific rigor to the world of folklore, but northern Ontario in January does not care for PhDs. Deep in the frozen bush, she tracked a legend that the local Anishinaabe warned was born of pure greed. Now, sixty miles from civilization, the temperature has dropped to minus thirty-two, and the weight is falling off her bones despite everything she eats. The forest has gone silent, the trail cameras are moving on their own, and the voices of the dead are calling her name from the tree line. Every window in the cabin reflects a face that is no longer hers. There is no more room for documentation because the hunger has finally begun to feed on the researcher. Someone is screaming outside, and the worst part is realizing it sounds like an invitation.

You'll notice gameplay footage running under my narrations now — recorded by me exclusively for this channel. I hope it adds to the viewing experience.

Exclusive bonus stories here — ⁠⁠https://creators.spotify.com/pod/profile/creepypastadelight/subscribe⁠

Watch on YouTube — ⁠⁠⁠https://www.youtube.com/@SinisterSkully⁠⁠

You'll notice gameplay footage running under my narrations now — recorded by me exclusively for this channel. I hope it adds to the viewing experience.

The silence of a suburban house at 3:00 AM is a heavy, suffocating weight. For a new mother, the baby monitor is the only lifeline, turning a nursery into a grainy, green landscape of shadows. But three nights ago, the white noise cut out, replaced by a wet, clicking whisper that spoke of snapping bones to fit into small spaces. On the screen, the crib is empty, yet the rocking chair moves with a rhythmic, ghostly creak. Something is unfolding from the corners of the ceiling, a jagged shape with too many joints and a hunger that cannot be sated. My husband is at the door, smiling and wearing his favorite shirt, but his shadow on the pavement is long, broken, and wrong. He is turning the key now, and I realize that some things don't need an open door to get inside.