Creepypasta

A man checked in at a hotel, walked up to the front desk to collect his key. The woman at the desk gave him his key and told him that on the way to his room, there was a door with no number, that was locked, and no one was allowed in there. Especially no one should look inside the room, under any circumstances. So he followed the instructions of the woman and proceeded to his room and going straight to bed.

The nest night, his curiousity struck him and wouldn’t leave. He walked down the hall to the door and tried the handle. Sure enough the door with no number was locked, he then bent down and looked through the keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling his eye, what he saw was a hotel bedroom, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was completely white. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door. He stared in confusion for a while, he almost knocked on the door, but decided not to.

This disclination saved his life. He crept away from the door and went back to his room. The next day, he returned to the door and looked through the keyhole, this time, all he saw was redness. He couldn’t make anything out of it besides a distinct, red colour, unmoving. Perhaps the inhabitants of the room knew he was spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red.

At this point, he decided to consult the woman at the fron desk for more information. She sighed and said, “Did you loook through the keyhole?” The man nodded and told her what he saw. Then she said, “Well, I might as well tell you the story. A long time ago a man murdered his wife in that room, and her ghost haunts it..” She then whispered..

“But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over… Except for their eyes… Which were red…”

It has been reported that some victims of torture, during the act, would retreat into a fantasy world from which they could not wake up. In this catatonic state, the victim lived in a world just like their normal one, except they weren’t being tortured. The only way that they realized they needed to wake up was a note they found in their fantasy world. It would tell them about their condition, and tell them to wake up. Even then, it would often take months until they were ready to discard their fantasy world and please wake up.

When you are admitted to a hospital, they place on your wrist a white wristband with your name on it. But there are other different colored wristbands which symbolize other things. The red wristbands are placed on dead people.

There was one surgeon who worked on night shift in a school hospital. He had just finished an operation and was on his way down to the basement. He entered the elevator and there was just one other person there. He casually chatted with the woman while the elevator descended. When the elevator door opened, another woman was about to enter when the doctor slammed the close button and punched the button to the highest floor. Surprised, the woman reprimanded the doctor for being rude and asked why he did not let the other woman in.

The doctor said, “That was the woman I just operated on. She died while I was doing the operation. Didn’t you see the red wristband she was wearing?”

The woman smiled, raised her arm, and said, “Something like this?”

In Berlin, after World War II, money was short, supplies were tight, and it seemed like everyone was hungry. At that time, people were telling the tale of a young woman who saw a blind man picking his way through a crowd. The two started to talk. The man asked her for a favor: could she deliver the letter to the address on the envelope? Well, it was on her way home, so she agreed.

She started out to deliver the message, when she turned around to see if there was anything else the blind man needed. But she spotted him hurrying through the crowd without his smoked glasses or white cane. She was, naturally, suspicious, so she went to the police.

When the police paid a visit to the address on the envelope, they made a gruesome discovery, three butchers had been harvesting human flesh and selling it to the starving people.

And what was in the envelope the man gave to the woman? A note, saying simply “This is the last one I am sending you today.”

Marchers in the Woods

When I was young, in the Boy Scouts, I went to summer camp in a remote spot on the Mason Dixon line. It was fameous for being on the route of the South’s retreat from the defeat at Gettysburg.

There was a story that there was a lost patrol that still marched through there, on moonless nights. Anyone they noticed would be conscripted to join them.

It was one of many campfire stories we told, and I might have forgotten all about it, except for or one night. I woke up to the sound of drums in the woods.

The camp was silent. I cracked open the flap and froze. On the path a troop was marching through a low fog. Most were wounded, all wearing civil war uniforms, rucksacks, carrying muskets slung over the shoulder; as they marched a single drummer ticked off the time.

I tried not to even breathe as they marched by. Finally the last soldier came into view, and something about him really sent a chill through me. Just as they were about to go out of sight his head whipped around, and I thought our eyes met for a moment.

Soon after my family moved far away from Pennsylvania, and I convinced myself it was all a bad dream. I moved back here last month, and have been hearing drums late at night.

The new moon is soon, and I figured out what was disturbing about that last soldier. He wasn’t wearing a Civil War uniform. He wore a Boy Scout uniform.