Creepypasta Ideas

Tim pecks your cheek before leaving a half-finished cigarette pack on the cot. One of the sticks had his number written on it.

Toby was next. He was more consistent with his visits– partly because he doesn’t even know he’s bleeding out unless someone points it out to him, and partly because he doesn’t know how not to be reckless in everything he does.

Toby was leaning backwards, propped up on his elbows with his shirt lifted up to his chest. Scars adorned his torso like gruesome Christmas lights. Most of his wounds healed irregularly– and you were determined to sanitize the newest one well.

Betadine bottle in your hand and cotton in the other, you whisper up to him. He thinks you have the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen. You rest your wrist on his knee. “This is gonna sting, but it’ll clean your cut so it’ll heal nicely and won’t get infected.” Toby grins, gash making grim sounds of saliva disconnecting from teeth. “Duh–don’t sweat it,” he whistles. “I cuh–can’t f-feel it anywa–way.” 

You smile kindly at his endurance. Betadine-soaked cotton pinched securely in your hand, you start lightly dabbing the disinfectant on his cut, getting firmer on the deeper parts– but otherwise as gentle as you can on the rest.

Toby watches your face closely. He snickers. “Y-you really like me that muh–much, huh?” Your head snaps up at him, startled and confused. “I’m– I’m sorry?” Toby grins wider, leaning in a little more. “You wouldn’t be this cuh–careful with m-me if you didn’t l-like me.” Blushing, you finish up disinfecting his wound, but his hand stops yours from patching the gauze up on him.

“Tell me I–I’m your favorite patient,” he mutters.

You look up at him once more. “You’re… you’re my favorite patient, Toby.”

Grinning, he lets go of your hand and lets you patch him up, and leaves without another word.

Brian had nicked his finger while repairing his work table. He had asked you for a simple clean-and-patch. 

The cut was bleeding, but had since stopped when you put enough pressure. Fearing infection, you asked him questions.

“Did you get cut on a rusty surface?” Brian shakes his head, a faint smile on his face. “Clean blade. Nothin’ shabby.” You nod, inhaling the cologne he had spritzed on himself earlier today, now mixed with the metal of nails, shaved wood, and summer air.

“This’ll sting. Tell me if you need a break, okay?” looking up at him, Brian chuckles briefly. “A break from you? I’d sit here all day if you asked me to, sweetpea.”

Blushing— god why couldn’t you just stop BLUSHING— you purse your lips together and start lightly brushing the liquid on his cut. Brian was quiet the whole time, almost as if drinking every twinge of pain with no problem. Wrapping the bandage around his finger, nice and tight and pristine, you exhale in your seat, gazing up at him.

He’s smiling at you. You clear your throat, “Everything feel okay? No itchiness or anything like that?” Brian shakes his head. “No, miss nurse. Everything’s handy dandy now that you’re here to take care ‘f me,” He leans in close, rubbing his cut with his other hand, looking intently at the newly-treated cut. “After all, it took me a little courage to put this cut on m’self.”

Brian looks up at you, face so close you can feel the heat radiating off of him. “Thanks for the treatment, nurse.”

Red and embarrassed and frigid, you sat still on your seat while he used his knees to prop himself up. Brian stops eerily still when he reaches the doorway. 

He looks back at you from behind. “Come by the garage when you can, yeah? I don’t know if I’ll accidentally hurt myself again.”

The door closes with a click.

You asked Jack for the rest of the day off.

Jeffrey Woods

No matter how smart you started off, or how carefully you treaded, he caught onto you quick.

The thought of killing you did pass his mind, admittedly. Sure, at best you proved as free amusement, but at worst you could stand between him getting off scott free. You were risk. Chance thrown into a safe routine he’d slipped into, a challenge to mowing down body after body.

I’d be lying if I didn’t mention that was part of the appeal.

He ABSOLUTELY gets off on it.

That someone like you —otherwise normal, someone he’d usually label as a victim— was not just able, but willing to follow him down whatever fucked up path he was set on that evening. That someone so average was hiding such a perverse fascination with his craft.

The periods where he knows you’re there, just outside whatever house he’d broken into, he’s far more messy.

He puts on a show for his most adoring fan, as he sees it. Their faces left carved open, gore left splayed out and modelled, maybe even a message written on the walls if he felt so generous. The perfect scene left behind for your collection of polaroids.

It’s only after you go so far as to take a souvenir from him that he cuts the game of cat and mouse and confronts you. He’s not above showing off, but anyone who touches his shit usually leaves with one less finger. Or hand.

Of course, he made an exception for his favorite little fan.

Your first “date” as he calls it, is front row seats to his work. I said before he got off on the idea of someone so unassuming being so deranged when they thought no one noticed, but that was a half truth.

What he really got off on was the idea of you being led into becoming even worse. That you’d succumb to that fascination just like he did. That he could convince you, not just to trust in him, but towards corrupting yourself entirely. That you’d leave that normalcy behind for him.

You would, eventually. He’d lead you to your first kill, one he monologues over while you held the knife.

“It’s not just him you’re killing” He’d guide your hand lower, closer the man oblivious to you.

“That old self… that weak person you were, before me— of course” He would laugh, dry and unhinged in his euphoria.

“Before you committed yourself to becoming even better.”

And you would. You already dug the grave afterall, someone has to lay in it.

Ben Drowned

It was an entirely innocent mistake. Or, at least, that’s what it looked like to him upon first impressions.

You weren’t skittish or paranoid. Not hollowed by sleep and already scared of what lurked beyond your knowledge. All things considered, he’d almost say you’d looked deeply pleased upon seeing the Majora’s Mask title screen.

How were you supposed to know the cartridge was haunted? That the prompts you were getting back weren’t normal? That there was someone, on the other side of the screen, watching you?

You were supposed to be a run-of-the-mill psychological torture for Ben, you were.

You weren’t supposed to take analogue notes of every time he fucked up your PC. To coo in response to his very genuine threats on your life. Or search about ways to piss him off more so that you were sure he’d come back.

To him, all mortals were weird. He’d been dead for so long he’d forgotten what fear was beyond his own death. But horror movie logic (or any logic, for that matter) skipped over any part where you’d respond how you did.

Egging him on, to fuck up your tech even more. Tempting him to get sloppy, to forget what affairs he can and can’t interfere with. Talking to him, learning when he was there, worshipping his presence. Changing in front of your webcam, knowing it was on.

Things only got… weirder the further he looked back at your search history. Pages upon pages of research and questions and websites about him. Even with what little credible information there was, he could’ve sworn you scoured all of it. Now you’d finally caught his attention, and you were giddy.

For a while, a long while, he didn’t do much with your connection to him. He’d hit your line for company, taking amusement in how you’d immediately drop whatever you were doing for him. Revel in your obsession, in your dependence, for someone who was so unattached.

It gave him agency, control over something real. It got to his head. The amusement to your need for him became an equally strong possession to your attention.

He only stops being a voyeur because he gets tired of the screen between you. Images were all well and good, but you were infuriatingly no responsive. Pretending not to notice that little blinking red light, going about your days and nights pretending you didn’t have an observer. Teasing him, tempting him. Innocent mistakes one after another after another. Just goading him to do something to you.

And do something he did.

One by one your contacts stop working.

Your inboxes close and the contacts are deleted.

Your computer’s interface is replaced with one he coded just for you.

The webcams never turn off. Even if you do cover them, the other cameras cover enough of your house so he’s never without you.

And yes, the captures from his recordings do take up a folder in his own computer.

Nina Hopkins

Mutual stalking is SOO in for the summer, or for hers, at least.

The second she realizes she has a stalker (and a cute one at that) she is committed to out doing you.

Nina already lacks a clear understanding of what’s normal in a romantic relationship. Her entire new life came to be from the idol worship of someone who she hardly knew.

In fact, as far as she’s concerned, this is entirely normal! It is normal to leave gifts for your crush isn’t it? You must be a little shy. She’ll just have to help you.

You miss a mission of hers? No worries, a stack of photos are left on your night stand within the hour. Maybe some poor guy’s finger too, but she’ll let you keep the ring!

Trying to follow her? Of course she’ll start going down narrower roads to force you closer. No need to be shy!

You take her clothes? Awe, you should’ve told her you wanted to trade! She’ll just help herself to some of yours.

Oh what’s that? You want more photos? Things of hers? They’re left on top of your bed tied up in a bow.

You are the photo on her lock screen, in her phone case, and the poster on her wall. The trinkets she’s pocketed from her trips to your room occupy a small box she keeps in her nightstand. It’s all too valuable to throw away.

She pushes off missions and assignments in favor of taking a day to just… bask in you. She’s never far behind, just taking notes. Nothing harmful about that, right? She’s just trying to be a good girlfriend! There’s nothing odd in memorising your coffee order, or your usual paths around town, or the list of people you interact with.

She’s absolutely killed for you before. That touchy guy on the train? Oh don’t worry— It’s not like he’ll be sorely missed. Well, his hands will be sorely missed by him, but that’s his price to pay.

She’ll leave notes on the pictures you have of her, noting which ones she likes the most and adding ones of you. Her favorites include the ones where you’re behind her and can’t tell she’s taking a photo. Or when she finds you reading up about her.

It’ll eventually escalate to the point where you come home after work and she’s just taking a nap. Neither of you are surprised to see each other. She’s moved in within the week.

Brian Thomas

Well aren’t you just the cutest thing? Thinking you’re so smart following him, so sneaky breaking in and taking what you want.

He was stalking you long before you took note of him. “Chance” after “chance” encounter until you noticed him, until you latched onto him. He knew you well enough to know how to bait you into it, to get you comfortable making him uncomfortable.

For months leading up to the first time you even saw him he was obsessed in the details. How exactly you’d react, how guilty you’d look the first time you’d tail him, whether or not you’d leave half way though, that you’d still come back.

It’s damn near euphoric when you actually do. It’s payoff for so long of holding himself back, salvation for every sin it took to get there. He’s addicted, after the first time. Even though he had the whole thing planned, you’d still find some way to impress him.

Like how you managed to follow him the whole way home the first time you joined him. Or the first time you installed a camera without him noticing. And especially with how unbothered you were, like it were second nature to you.

He’ll play oblivious, for your sake. Leaving his truck unlocked, clothes easy to grab, gone for long periods of time. Enough for you to feel safe being bolder, but not too long to raise a question in that wonderful head of yours.

Oblivious, but not sloppy.

You’re too enraptured in your successes of following him and breaking into his car to notice the camera’s still recording. Or the tracker sewn into the clothes you stole.

He just can’t help himself. You’re too cute when you think you’ve one upped him. Thinking you’d got away with it.

The footage he collects of you is kept on a hard drive he keeps on him everywhere. He’s just as pleased as you were to break in while watching them back. He runs over every sigh and muttered word, finding a deep enjoyment putting pressure on his chest.

His sweet, sweet dolly finding the same enjoyment watching after him as he’s been doing for nearly a year. He’d known you’d have so much in common after meeting you that first time. You really were perfect for him.