A few years ago, a family in my town lost their dog after having him for ten years.

Months later, they came across a post in a Facebook group. An elderly woman was offering a puppy because, according to her, she was getting too old to take care of it.

The family agreed to take him in.

When they went to pick him up, the woman was waiting for them at an isolated house near of the Road 34. She handed them the puppy and said goodbye. However, when the family turned around to call out to her before leaving, the woman had disappeared.

At first, everything seemed normal. The puppy grew especially attached to the youngest daughter, who slept with him every night.

A few weeks later, strange things began to happen. Meat spoiled in the refrigerator just days after being purchased. Objects appeared in places where nobody had left them, and at night, they could hear footsteps running through the hallways.

One night, the girl screamed from her bedroom. Her parents rushed to check on her, but found her asleep, with the dog at the foot of her bed.

They were tired of the Situation so decided installed hide security cameras all around the house.

For months, nothing unusual was captured. Until one morning, the girl didn't come downstairs to have her breakfast.

What they found in her bedroom was enough for the police to cordon off the house. Both the dog and the girl were dismembered on the floor.

Investigators reviewed the footage, searching for an explanation.

In a recording from the previous night, the dog appeared standing on its hind legs, staring directly at the camera. It remained completely motionless for almost six hours.

But when they reviewed the footage from previous months, they discovered something impossible: the dog never appeared in any of the recordings. Not even when the girl seemed to be petting him, playing with him, or sleeping beside him.

In the videos, the girl was hugging empty air.

The police never found the woman who had given the family the puppy and nobody seems to know anything about her.

Years later, another family reported similar incidents. They, too, had lost their dog and received a replacement from a woman who lived in isolation.

When the police showed them a photograph of the animal from the first case, they recognized it immediately.

It was the same dog.

According to the family, it had been sleeping at the foot of their daughter's bed for weeks.

Let’s go back to the good old days

This image is a collage I made with my own photos. The mask was made with papier-mâché and gauze. It felt right posting here. Any cool name recommendations for this creepypasta?

Had fun reading these old stories and making some short vignettes with Slendy. Hope you guys enjoy!

"Across distant eras, horrors coalesce into hallucinatory forms within fevered nightmares."

I been working on a little creepy pasta with my work etc i just finished it few days ago, it’s a original story involving my own creepy pasta oc.
The Whisper Walker
“The woods don’t keep secrets… they collect them.”
The story you’re about to read doesn’t officially exist.
The state police deny it.
The park service blames wildlife.
The county archives insist every document related to Black Hollow State Forest before 1998 was destroyed in a courthouse fire.
But if you know where to look, pieces still remain.
Missing person flyers.
Old newspaper clippings.
Damaged radio recordings.
An abandoned ranger station with a notebook no one ever claimed.
Most people ignore them.
I didn’t.
I wish I had.

The Forest
Black Hollow sits nearly thirty miles from the nearest town.
By day it looks ordinary.
Pine trees.
Overgrown trails.
A quiet lake reflecting the sky.
At night…
everything changes.
Even the sound changes.
Crickets stop.
The wind dies.
It becomes so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat.
Locals refuse to enter after sunset.
When asked why, they always answer the same way.
“If the forest starts whispering…
don’t answer.”

Case #1
The first disappearance happened nearly thirty years ago.
Nineteen-year-old Nyx Rowan disappeared while searching for his younger sister after she wandered into Black Hollow during a thunderstorm.
Hundreds of volunteers searched.
Helicopters.
Tracking dogs.
Thermal cameras.
Nothing.
After six days they recovered only three things:
A cracked white half-mask.
A hunting knife buried in mud.
A trail of footprints.
The strange part?
The footprints stopped in the middle of an empty clearing.
There were no tracks leaving it.
As if whoever made them had simply…
ceased to exist.
Nyx was declared dead.
His sister was never found.

The Recordings
Years later, strange emergency calls began coming from inside the forest.
Every caller described hearing someone whisper their name.
Not shout.
Not call.
Whisper.
Operators saved dozens of recordings.
One lasted only forty seconds.
A man whispered,
“Someone’s walking beside me.”
The dispatcher asked where he was.
No answer.
Only footsteps.
Then another voice.
Soft.
Calm.
Almost comforting.
“You’re almost home.”
The caller began crying.
He kept repeating,
“That’s not my mother’s voice.”
The line went dead.
No body was ever recovered.

Ranger Lewis
Former park ranger Daniel Lewis ignored the stories.
He spent fifteen years working Black Hollow.
He believed every disappearance had a logical explanation.
Until October 14th.
His patrol log was recovered inside an abandoned watchtower.
The final pages were written in increasingly shaky handwriting.

10:18 PM
Heard someone walking behind me.
No visual contact.
Probably another hiker.

10:37 PM
Radio keeps cutting out.
Thought I heard someone say my name.
No one answered when I called back.

10:51 PM
Found footprints.
They’re mine.
But they’re walking toward me.

The final page contained only one sentence.
Written so hard the pen tore through the paper.
“He’s smiling behind the mask.”
Daniel Lewis disappeared that night.
His truck remained parked exactly where he’d left it.
The driver’s door was still open.

The Video
Three years later a power company technician installed motion cameras near the old service road.
Camera Four captured something impossible.
At 2:11 AM the road was empty.
At 2:11:01…
a hooded figure stood fifty yards away.
At 2:11:02…
twenty yards away.
At 2:11:03…
directly behind the camera.
There was no movement.
No walking.
No blur.
Only impossible positions between frames.
The footage corrupted immediately afterward.
Every recovered frame showed the same cracked white mask.

The Journal
I found the notebook in Ranger Station Six.
Most pages were soaked beyond recognition.
One survived.
It wasn’t signed.
It simply read:
He doesn’t hunt people.
He waits.
He learns your routine.
He learns your voice.
By the time you notice him…
you’ve already been followed for days.

I laughed when I first read it.
I don’t laugh anymore.

Three Whispers
After leaving Black Hollow, strange things began happening.
Someone knocked on my apartment door every night at exactly 2:13 AM.
No one was ever outside.
My security camera occasionally skipped several seconds.
Friends asked why I looked so tired.
I hadn’t told anyone about the forest.
One morning I found muddy boot prints outside my bedroom window.
I live on the third floor.
Then came the whisper.
Soft.
Almost impossible to hear.
My own name.
Behind me.
I spun around.
Nothing.
The next night…
I heard it twice.
The third night…
I refused to answer.
The whisper laughed.

The Last Recording
I started recording every sound in my apartment while I slept.
For weeks nothing happened.
Then, on the twelfth night…
At 2:13 AM…
the recorder captured footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Stopping beside my bed.
For nearly two minutes there was only breathing.
Then one sentence.
Spoken inches from the microphone.
“You looked behind you.”
The recording ended.
When I woke…
my bedroom door was open.
I always lock it.

If You Go
If you ever visit Black Hollow State Forest…
Leave before sunset.
Ignore the whispers.
Don’t investigate footsteps that match your own.
Don’t follow someone wearing a white mask.
If your phone loses signal and the forest suddenly becomes silent…
Turn around.
Walk back the way you came.
Do not run.
Do not call out.
And whatever you do…
If a calm voice behind you quietly says your name—
don’t answer.
Because the person speaking may already know exactly who you are.
And if Nyx Rowan has learned your voice…
the forest has already begun collecting another secret.

When we die, our bodies don’t get the message right away.

That’s something they don’t really prepare you for. Not in school, not in training, nowhere. People like to believe death is clean. Instant. Final.

It isn’t.

The body lingers. Muscles fire. Nerves misfire. Air shifts through places it no longer belongs. Fingers twitch. Jaws move. Sometimes, if you’re unlucky, the whole body jerks like it’s trying to wake back up.

The first time it happened to me was during my training.

I was leaning in, examining the arm, just doing what I’d been taught, when the body suddenly jerked and its hand snapped shut around my wrist.

I shouted.

Actually screamed.

One of the instructors laughed so hard he had to sit down.

“Relax,” he said. “He’s not coming back.”

I made some joke about zombies. Everyone does, at least once.

You laugh it off. You learn the science behind it. You tell yourself it’s normal.

And eventually…

you stop reacting.

Working at the morgue, I got used to it.

The movements. The sounds. The little reminders that the body doesn’t quite understand it’s dead yet.

Most of them are random.

Meaningless.

It’s all explainable.

It has to be.

At least, most of them are...

He came in on a Wednesday.

Male. Mid-forties. Approximately six-foot-four. Lean build. Dark hair with streaks of gray at the temples. Facial hair, short, uneven, like he hadn’t shaved in a few days.

Harold M.

Cause of death: undetermined.

That part stayed blank longer than usual. There were no clear signs of trauma. No overdose indicators. No disease obvious enough to call it on arrival.

Just… gone.

Found in his home. No signs of struggle.

It happens more often than people realize.

Still, something about that always sits wrong.

“Another mystery,” my colleague Jenna had said, flipping through the intake paperwork.

“Yeah,” I replied. “He looks like he just… stopped.”

Jenna shrugged. “They’ll figure it out upstairs.”

We both knew that wasn’t always true.

I prepped him like any other.

Cleaned. Tagged. Logged.

Placed him in his drawer.

Mr. Harold.

That’s what I called him in my notes.

I always use names when I can.

It feels… right.

Nights passed but by the time I was ready to head home from the gravyard shift. The unexpected occurred.

The first movement.

Subtle.

His fingers had shifted.

Not dramatically, just slightly curled inward, like they’d tightened.

Normal.

Postmortem contraction.

I noted it and moved on.

The second time, it was his jaw.

Slightly open when I checked him again.

That happens too. Muscles relax.

Air escapes.

Still normal. Still explainable.

By the third night, I started paying closer attention.

Because Mr. Harold wasn’t just moving.

He was… repositioning.

Not fully. Not in ways that would trigger panic in anyone else.

But enough that I noticed.

His arm would be angled slightly differently than before. His shoulders not resting the same way against the table.

Small things.

Small enough to doubt yourself over.

“Hey,” I said to Jenna one night. “You ever seen a body move more than usual?”

She didn’t look up from her paperwork.

“They all move.”

“Yeah, but I mean… consistently.”

That got her attention.

She glanced over at me.

“You thinking what?”

I hesitated.

Then shook my head.

“Nothing. Just… weird.”

She smirked. “You’ve been on night shift too long.”

Maybe she was right.

By the end of the week, I started checking on him more often.

Not out of fear.

Curiosity.

I’d make my rounds, log the temperatures, check the storage units, and I’d always stop at his drawer.

Mr. Harold.

Every time, something was off.

A hand slightly closer to the edge.

A foot angled outward.

Once, I could’ve sworn his head had shifted just a few degrees to the left.

I told myself it was paranoia.

Anything but what it felt like.

The night everything changed, it was quiet.

Too quiet, even for us.

Jenna had stepped out for a break, leaving me alone with the hum of refrigeration units and the low buzz of fluorescent lights.

I was doing my usual rounds when I noticed it.

His drawer.

Slightly open.

I froze.

Not because it was open.

Because I knew I had closed it.

I always double-check.

Always.

“Jenna?” I called out.

No answer.

Of course not.

She wasn’t back yet.

I approached slowly.

Told myself it was nothing.

Told myself drawers can shift. Old tracks. Slight tilts.

I reached for the handle.

Pulled it open.

It was empty.

For a moment, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.

My brain tried to correct it.

He’s there. You just missed him.

But he wasn’t.

Mr. Harold was gone.

My first thought wasn’t fear.

It was procedure.

Check the room. Check the logs. Check for errors.

Bodies don’t just disappear.

I found him ten minutes later.

On the floor.

Not fallen.

Not dropped.

Positioned.

What is this some kind of fucked up prank, I thought.

His body lay several feet from the drawer.

Face down.

Arms bent awkwardly beneath him.

Knees drawn slightly inward.

The skin along his forearms and legs showed faint abrasions, thin streaks, like friction against tile.

Like he had moved.

I stood there, staring.

Trying to fit it into something that made sense.

Maybe he fell. Maybe the drawer malfunctioned. Maybe—

No.

The distance was wrong.

The position was wrong.

Everything about it was wrong.

I knelt beside him slowly.

“Mr. Harold,” I muttered, before I could stop myself.

My voice sounded too loud in the silence.

I repositioned him.

Carefully.

Placed him back onto the tray.

Aligned his limbs.

Closed the drawer.

My hands were shaking.

I tried to tell Jenna. Wanted her to come out clean if she was messing with me. But she had no clue what I was blabbering about.

I couldn’t explain it.

And I didn’t want to hear it out loud.

That was the night I started feeling watched.

It wasn’t immediate.

It crept in.

A quiet awareness at the back of my mind.

Like something in the room had shifted.

Like I wasn’t alone anymore.

I checked the cameras.

Everything looked normal.

But something felt… off.

Frames didn’t line up quite right.

Small gaps I couldn’t account for.

Moments missing.

When I went back to the storage room—

His drawer was open again.

I didn’t remember opening it. I knew I hadn’t.

That’s when I stopped trying to explain it.

I turned the corner slowly.

And that’s when I saw him.

Mr. Harold was standing.

Not upright. Not fully.

His body was bent forward slightly, spine curved at an unnatural angle.

His arms hung too low, fingers nearly brushing the floor.

His head lagged behind the rest of him, tilted at a delay that made my stomach turn.

Then—

he moved.

A small shift.

A correction.

Like something adjusting its balance.

His leg jerked forward.

Too stiff.

Too deliberate.

His foot planted awkwardly against the tile.

He took a step.

Not toward me.

Not toward anything.

Just… forward.

Like he was learning.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

I just watched.

His eyes were open.

Not wide.

Not searching.

Just… open.

Empty.

There was nothing there. As if there was nothing of higher recognition to operate. The machine was free from its intelligent creator. But the machine operated as it was designed.

It moved. Without any recognition.

No awareness.

No life.

Just motion.

I don’t remember leaving.

I don’t remember calling anyone.

All I know is I never went back.

Jenna messaged me about my hasty departure. She was left with no answers.

And I was left with no conclusion.

Just another file logged but this one didn’t make any sense.

I still think about Mr. Harold.

About what I saw.

About what it means.

There was nothing inside him. Nothing controlling

So what taught him to stand?

If a body can still move without its person…

then what part of us actually makes us human?

Have you ever told someone the truth, and they just refuse to believe it?
It can be annoying and frustrating among other things to say the least.

Growing up with a Father, and no Mother.
A Mom that chose an addiction over you and a Father who chose you,
only to chare you with a different addiction of his choice years later.

"You have addiction in your blood'
Your Father would say

"If you ever get addicted to drugs ill chain you up in the bathroom and dry you out till your clean"
He'd tell you, his 11-year-old son.

You tried to reason with it, the way he talked to you. He had you at 25,
at the end of the day he's barely an adult himself, you'd tell yourself.

After his marriage and...well, divorce wasn't a surprise. 

A seed that was planted,
In soil that was prepped,
Located In a room with access to sunlight.
A stem that sprouted dull and never got to bloom. 
From Full womb to empty room,

A stillbirth. 

As tiny as she was,
Our already cluttered closet couldn't fit one more skeleton.

They fought before,
and this was the last crack in our glass house.

Seeing My stepsisters and I celebrating a life that would never start sent him right back to that familiar place He adored oh so much,

Addiction. 

 Started small,
like a pain you know you should have looked at,
and with the help of negligence,
it went unchecked,
it grew.

What began were addictions you foolishly mistook as harmless.

That addiction to the gym was weekly steroid use,
That lust for those new women he was meeting online fueled his use of unapproved enhancements his body wasn't even close to needing.

Introducing himself to testosterone packets before he was 35 and consuming them like their sunflower seeds.

Eventually a partner stuck,
one just as dysfunctional as him of course,
and specifically an alcoholic. 

It didn't take long for him to follow and for the first time in your life he was not the lead.

By the time you were 15,
he was drinking every day,
not just every night.

His Girlfriend throwing bottles, slamming Tv's, and pouring bleach on the carpets as penance for things that were just not true,
Is ironic in hindsight.

On Christmas Eve you got a call that he might not be home the next day,
that his girlfriend was lying and that he might go to jail.
Christmas day came,
and he was asleep in his bed,
with no recollection,
laughing at the insinuation of such things.

You joined a different school,
one that allowed you to be home most days,
And that just made the time you spent in that environment take that much longer.

Against all odds,
His girlfriend was the one to leave.
And then again,
it was just you two.

The worst it got was when he started mixing Ambien with his alcohol.

From his room,
you'd hear screams.
You'd hear conversations between two people that were not there.
You'd hear many voices out the man you call Dad.

Not all of the voices were angry, but most were.
Not every conversation started out loud.
Some were just confusing.

"I know....because...what?.....I'm swimming...a demon?...no!...I SAID IM SWIMMING!"

Other times were more concerning,
"no...because...because I said...Fuck you...FUCK YOU!....FUCK YOU..."

Followed by another voice...
"I'm sorry...you're right...
take them....
he knows...
No...
Veins...?
I dont think so..."

Then his again,
Screaming your name at the top of his lungs.

When you ran to the door of his room,
The door was open and he was lying in bed,
half covered by the comforter...silent.

You questioned what to say,
What to do?

You're 17 and at the very least,
you want to make sure your only remaining family is not dead.

"Yeah?"
You holler in his room,
a late response to him calling your name.

"Blegh HUH?...WHAT?"
He'd abruptly reply.

"What!?"

"you were yelling for me'
Youd explain.

"oh, I'm fine go back to bed"

He'd insist.
Before whispering nonsense to himself.

The moment you'd get back to bed,
The yelling would continue.

You can't event have friends over because you can't trust him not to strip down and try to break into your room.

Our dry wall was always temporary,
and our Tv's and glasses might as well have been rentals,
nothing lasted in our house,

Being fed so much conspiracy about religion,
It wasn't hard to begin to wonder if he was possessed. 

It wasn't always like this.

For a few months after the divorce,
before the alcoholic girlfriend,
For a brief moment when it was just you two, he almost felt stable.

He didn't hit you,
The yelling and drinking were manageable,
And every Friday night he'd take you to blockbuster.

Things have changed so much.
You never know who you're having a conversation with.

One moment you think you're talking to him,
And that very mid-sentence it becomes oh so clear, that it's not.

His eyes are different, their glossy.
His demeanor is different, cold, and absent.
like one bulb in a line of Christmas lights that just won't participate.

He'd stopped before,
Then drink again.
His actions were questionable, and his word became nothing.

What does a Son say to his Father when he knows he's hiding alcohol in his work truck?

What does a Son do when he finds his Father naked in the driveway?

What does a Son do when he sees his Father Going down a road he knows he shouldn't?

A Son that's Afraid of his father.

Everything is easier said than done.

You never know if he's really sober.

"do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
His voice timid, eyes clear of gloss.

Even if you could tell which Him was asking,
You were certain that wouldn't be the same Him by the time you watched the movie.

So, you never say yes to that question again.
And as hard as it is, it's easier.
Easier than letting yourself get surprised by something that shouldn't surprise you anymore.

Eventually you get a Job,
Hours almost shittier than your pay, and it makes you a shell of a person.
Physically and emotionally drained.

Most days you stay in your room because it's safer in there, 
Then most days turn into all days. 

Seemingly out of nowhere,
your father begins to stare at you from every corner of the house with anger in his eyes,
Eyebrows always scrunched tightly. 

Eventually,
No words were exchanged.

You feel bad,
This is your father and you love him,  
So, when he asks you to have dinner with him,
for once you do.

The next morning,
Your eyes opened to the bathtub you'd once washed the family pet in,
and that oh so familiar tile floor,
After a moment you realized you were in your father's rooms masterbathroom.

Your legs were sore,
Pins and needles in your feet,
And your wrists felt raw.

You looked down at a note that was out of your reach.
As you attempted to grab it,
you realized your hands were chained to the bathtub spout.

You used your bare knee to drag it closer where you could read it,
You were in nothing but your boxers, you were cold.

The note read:

"No son of mine will be an addict,
You'll thank me.
I love you"
-Dad

You lifted your leg above the tub and opened the bathroom cupboard with your toe, you hoped to find something to break the bathtub spout with but all that was there were loofas and a bottle of expired tramadol.

Your mouth was dry,
Your stomach felt as though if someone were to plunge it,
absolutely nothing would come out.

At first you yelled, but you soon realized no one would answer.
It was hours before the silence in your house was broken,
there were no windows but one tinted sunlight above the shower.
You had no idea what time it was.

Once the sun was no more,
The house shook to the slam of the front door. 
You heard those familiar work boots thud up the wooden stairs.

Louder and louder...
Closer and closer...
They then reached the door.

You heard him enter his room though the door to his room's bathroom remained close.

*Thud Thud Thud Thud\*

For a moment you see the silluett of his boots beneath the door

"Dad...?"
You asked.

"mrghh Fuck you"
He responded as the thuds of his boots retreated.

You heard the impact as he collapsed on his bed,
And then began the yelling...
All night...

"no...
Fuck you!...
because...
I did...
Yes you are!"

More and more of the same old shit...
As scared as you were you couldn't not try.

"Dad...Help please let me out"
You yelled.

"you're an addict..
Fuck you!...
Dry out!....mrrgh piece of shit"

He screamed back...

"Please!"
You yelled.

"Fuck you!...
Dry Out you're not my son!..."
He screamed....

After the second night you began to hear whispering coming from the drain...

"He hasn't stopped...
Theres a demon in his veins..."
You'd hear.

It sounded like boiling beneath the drain.

You tried your best to tear the chains from your wrists, yet all you did was bleed and scream.
To this your dad had no response,
He never did.
He just continued to scream and yell to himself.

Before you knew it,
there were more voices than you'd ever heard from him before.
You swore you heard a woman's voice.

"you're poisoned...
NO!
What did you expect?
SWIMMING!

You screamed and screamed...
But after the 5th night,
You realized there was no point, to anything.

You used your toes to curl around the pill bottle,
You used the last bit of energy you had to bring it within your reach.

When your eyes opened next,
You looked to the left,
You saw the bathroom,
You saw your body,
chained to the spout of the bath.

You looked to the right and saw your fathers nightstand,

you saw your fathers pill bottles and fireball,
You saw the door of his master bedroom from the outside.

You tried to touch your eyes,
You tried to rub them into seeing straight.

Might as well have been RuPaul's eyes.

You closed them tightly,
as tight as possible and grabbed your face.

You felt your father's beard on the right and your bare face on the left.

"Do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?"
You asked

"please let me out Dad"
You replied.

Even as you swallowed all the pills on the nightstand washing them down with the Fireball,

Even though you knew your death would seal this fiction as fact,

Even though you knew no one would believe you,

You couldn't help but have one last thought,

I'm Not An Addict.

"Light struggles to survive within a ravenous, living darkness."

No bairro onde eu moro, há um grande muro na última rua que separa o bairro de uma empresa. Não há muitas casas por lá
Nesse muro tem uma pixação muito estranha. Segue tudo que foi pixado

Luto (várias vezes)
ETERNO DI CATARINA(bem grande)
Tero do mecea (ao lado do anterior)
05/04/2025

Eu já fiz diversas pesquisas e não achei nada relacionado a essa data e também nunca ouvi falar de um morador que tivesse esse apelido
Como eu posso descobrir mais sobre isso?

i found this image and edited it and its a great creepypasta image so what should the creepypasta for the image be

The last playmate 

Katie, a little girl with bright green eyes and long brown hair sat crying in her room, like so many nights before. Holding a picture of her family, her mother and father, hand-in-hand, with her in the middle, the seemingly picture perfect family, but in reality, her mother had left 1 month after the picture was taken, leaving her with her father. Due to this, her father took up another job, leaving her home alone most days. After work he would go to the bar to drink his sorrows away.

Katie's cries turned silent, hearing her fathers drunken silhouette stumble into the house and land on the couch. Laying down Katie sang the song her mother used to sing to her every night, it had been years but she still remembered it vividly…

Sleep, my star, the moon is high,
Close your pretty dreaming eyes.
Though I must go, I’ll leave the light,
To guard your heart through every night.

The wind may whisper soft and low,
A secret only mothers know—
That love, once sewn, will never stray,
No matter how I'm pulled away.

So hush now, don’t cry,
I’ll kiss you in the sky.
In dreams I’ll hold you near,
My voice you'll always hear.
Wherever I may roam,
Your heart will be my home.

With the memories of her mother flowing through her mind, silent tears still fell through her closed eyes as sleep finally came, ending another horrible day.
She was awakened by the sound of her father leaving for work, after her mother left they barely spoke, only if necessary. 
She walked down the stairs and went to the backyard with a book to read under the tree her mother planted. She looked out the sliding door and saw an irish wolfhound standing under a tree, its back was to her shoulders, anyone else would be scared, but Katie felt comfort, she went to it as if it was an old friend.
“Good boy” katie said, scratching behind its ears
The dog's eyes looked strangely human, like it was someone trapped in the dog’s body.
She brought the dog in, folding a blanket in the corner of her room
“You can live with me now” she said warmly, “but we have to be quiet”
She put her finger to her lips, then sat on her bed to read.

The dog lived with Katie for 2 weeks, anytime she cried the dog was there, the dog followed her everywhere.
At 8:30 one night, just before her dad gets home from work, the dog would not stop scratching at the door
“What's wrong boy?” she patted his head “you wanna walk in the woods again?”
She walked down the stairs to see her dad walking though the door
“Where are you going at this hour?” Her father asked
“I am taking my dog for a walk”
Her dad had seen the dog around the house but thought nothing of it
“Okay but be careful, you know about all of those missing children reports around”
“Okay daddy” and with that, she left.
She walked with the dog into the woods. Once they were so far in she couldn't see anything but trees around her, she spoke.
“We should head back, its getting late” 
Just then the dog started to act in ways a dog shouldn't, making odd noises that sounded like bones cracking and snapping. It began to contort as 4 long, darker gray, thin and boney limbs ripped through the side of the dog, and the paws turn into long slippery tentacles, The dog's head twisted sideways in an unnatural way, its mouth opening, a long neck and face crawling out of the dogs throat. The dog's jaws turned into more tentacles. 
The face was gaunt and thin, no eyes, just deep, black sockets in their place
no mouth until its jaw snapped open and unhinged big enough to fit a car, its tentacles wrap around her ankles and mouth to silence her, it picked her up and slowly slid her into its mouth, swallowing her whole. A loud gagging noise echoed through the forest as it regurgitated her clothes, a pink frilly dress and black buckled shoes that her mother bought her. 
The creature transformed into a different dog this time. It wasn't an Irish wolfhound. It was a golden retriever, and it walked off into the forest, leaving nothing but the clothes she left the house on that day, empty on the forest floor. 

Little Jamie was sitting in his living room waiting for his mom to come home from work, he went to the kitchen to get a snack when he saw a golden retriever sitting in his back yard…

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*SUZUKI: creepypasta original - El Hermano Protector*

- *Nombre completo:* Suzuki Yamamoto (山本鈴木)

- *Edad:* 20 años

- *Nacionalidad:* Japonés

- *Altura:* 183cm

- *Ojos:* Azules brillantes (ve a detalle lo que otros no ven)

- *Pelo:* Negro, corto, desordenado

- *Marca:* Cicatrices rojas en la frente y pecho por defender a su hermana

- *Ropa:* Playera negra pegada y pantalón azul

- *Fecha de nacimiento:* 5 de mayo del 2000

- *Debilidad:* No puede dejar sola a Sora

- *Habilidad:* Escucha todo a 100 metros y tiene fuerza para proteger

*HISTORIA:*

Yo soy Suzuki, el hermano mayor de Sora.

Sora era todo para mí. Cuando pasó lo de Kyoto el 4 de marzo, yo estaba en Tokio. Yo sabía que Sora era inocente porque me había mandado foto de su pizza a las 5pm ese día.

Fui a la estación de policía a gritar que ella no fue. Les mostré la foto, les rogué que vieran las cámaras de la pizzería. Nadie me hizo caso. Por alzar la voz defendiéndola, me dieron 2 años.

En esos 2 años solo pensaba en una cosa: "Tengo que salir y encontrar a mi hermana".

Cuando salí, Sora ya no estaba. Se había ido de casa. Dicen que ahora aparece en callejones obscuros de Tokio con ojos morados que brillan. La busqué por meses.

Una noche de lluvia en un callejón de Ramen, la encontré. Ya no era la niña que jugaba. Ahora era fría, seria, con su pelo café con morado y rojo.

Me acerqué y le dije: "Sora, soy yo".

Ella me miró con sus ojos morados y por primera vez, sonrió triste.

Desde ese día hicimos una promesa: Nunca más dejar que culpen a alguien inocente sin defenderse.

Ahora somos *SORA & SUZUKI - Hermanos*.

Ella aparece primero. Con sus ojos morados ve en la obscuridad si alguien está siendo culpado injustamente.

Yo aparezco después. Con mis ojos azules veo el peligro y con mis cicatrices asusto a los que culpan, para que sientan lo que sintió Sora.

No hacemos daño. Solo protegemos.

Si algún día te culpan por algo que no hiciste y estás solo en la noche en Tokio, grita nuestros nombres.

*Sora y Suzuki te escucharán

His hands were warm and wet with suds and the running water of the tap. He'd never minded doing the dishes, it'd always been meditative, helped him think and figure things through. It wasn't working this time. 

Arnold just gazed vacantly. Into the corner. The water, forgotten, steaming now as it grew hotter and hotter. Running over his forgotten and faraway hands. They didn't matter. 

None of it mattered anymore. 

How could she do this … how could she lie to him as if he never mattered?

Arnold's heart was broken but it was still galloping a mile a minute within his cage of chest and his mind ached like something heavy and curdled within his furnace skull. The bake of his brains. He swore he could smell the boil of his own thoughts within his face but it held no matter for him now, not presently. 

He was too focused on the fly speaking to him from the corner. 

It was amazing. Really. 

The black husk of dead insect was resting amongst the filth and the dust of the uncleaned and neglected kitchen corner, just inside a nook by the kitchen window. It was dead but it still spoke to him with a deep obsidian voice. Regal. Authoritative. Commanding. It was a voice used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter, that deep stygian vocal sound … 

Arnold was so glad there was no one else around, they wouldn't understand. He was glad, relieved really, to be able to hear the prince's words in private. 

I am in private royal audience, great royal attendance. This is the coveted stately place of imperial confidence. 

Tears began to flow forth from Arnold's watering eyes. He listened enraptured, held by the thing's every word. 

“It doesn't matter. None of them matter, not even you. None of your feelings. You're just meat. All of you. All of you are just meat made mobile by an electrical charge, sent flung flying forward like grotesque mongoloids in the dark squabbling for purchase of the failing putrescence that is the outer, your material. Your world is not a world at all but an abattoir. A slaughterhouse. And all of you are pigs. Sows. Cattle. I am the prince made and bred by wings on wind, I am the flight and escape from the filth of the floor and all your animal leavings. I land and feast and defile at my own will. I lay my young in the wet and wounded folds of your gangrenous failures like the flags planted by conquerors. I am more. You are, all of you, nothing.” 

It was so beautiful … He'd never heard words quite like it before. The water issued from the spout to his hands was fire but he didn't notice. He didn't notice the boil or blister of his reddening and peeling fingers and palms as the prince of the wind went on in the corner. 

He didn't want to miss it. Anything. He didn't want to miss a single note of the angel's felled song. His teary gaze bore in on his new dark god and the shared eyes of the fly, theirs compact and his: fragile mammalian gel, began to secrete and water as well. 

“I am the testament. I am and speak the truth. I am the monolith outside to those who cannot hear or see but to you Arnold Carrillo, to you amongst the meat and ruin I land and sing. I see your wounds. Do you see the truth …?” 

A beat.  – Hands boiled as thoughts ran like hot running water. …

Finally he answered. 

In a quiver of watery voice: “ … yes.” 

The prince of wind and flight from the dark corner in the filth laughed, pleased. 

Yes…  

“And do you know now what you must do?" – that deep hideous voice. 

But Arnold did not fear it. He couldn't. Not any longer. Not after the kindness of such wisdom that it had shown him. It had taken and led him from out of the dark. By the hand. By singing sound. By flight. 

He understood now. 

"Yes.” Arnold told the prince amongst the dust in the corner. 

Yes. 

He finally pulled his hands free of the running water. The raw of them was singing. A sharp and red song that burned and was bright with fleshen cruelty. 

But none of that mattered right now, not anymore. None of that mattered any longer. 

Soon Suze would be home. With the girls. They would all of them be expecting him and dinner. Normalcy. A nice normal cozy family night. They had no idea what he knew. 

She has no idea I know … 

The prince was right. He knew now what to do. Doing the dishes had worked out and had actually been a good idea after all. Thank God. 

Arnold toweled the screaming ruined remainder of his hands and gathered what he needed. What the prince of the dustinwind had instructed. What he should gather and collect and share with his girls if he was to ever show and really prove himself. Demonstrate what he has to really offer. 

Prove that he has really learned. He has. He has learned to grow. And …

well he would just wait for them. They wouldn't be much longer now. School and the after-image of after school activities was fading and diminishing now, falling with the gentle settling death of the setting sun on the blade of the horizon. Fairytale and far off. Long gone. 

The sun had to die everyday. It was no big deal. The sun had to die every single day in order for the night to be made and in order for the day to be reborn. In gold. In light. 

Arnold Carrillo sat and waited with his screaming raw hands. Waiting with what he had gathered, with what was needed in the glistening red of his hands. Waiting for his wife and daughters. Waiting to share with them what he now knew and had learned in the postmental-slaughter. 

He sat waiting by the door. With what he would share with them in his dripping screaming hands. 

The prince of dusty wind and flight buzzed and throatsang its throatwisdom into him all the while. Filling his need as he waited for his family. They would be home soon. Now. 

Any minute. 

THE END