I’d had them ever since I was a kid.

I can remember being incredibly self-conscious about them, hiding them in my pockets under books and bags. The kids at school never said anything to my face, but I knew they were laughing behind my back.

I remember asking my parents to take me to the doctor, to get them checked out. The growths on my hands seemed to be the elephant in the room back then, since they’d just say I was fine and change the subject. But I knew better.

I had tried to remove them as a child, but without avail. Scissors, knives, potato peelers; trying to cut or scrape them off was always a lost cause because I couldn’t continue once the pain kicked in.

But today was different. It’s amazing how numb you can get with a couple of tourniquettes and a bottle of Jack Daniels. I was originally planning to use a sharp knife, but figured that trying to slice through the tough flesh of the growths would be too arduous in my drunken state. I opted for the slightly more technological plan B.

I had to hurry though. I was already pretty light-headed and was starting to feel dizzy. My hands and forearms, nearly blue from the lack of circulation, couldn’t wait much longer either. The whirring of the blender helped to put me in a sort of trance–ready to do what I had wanted to do since I first looked down at my strange deformities.

I shoved my left hand in first. The immediate sensation of sharp blades slicing through flesh was jarring, but I was surprised at how well the alcohol was working–I expected it to hurt more. I could hear the sharp metal churning and cutting, working perfectly as planned. I pressed my hand down harder. All those bad memories, all of the embarrasment–all of those horrible things were now nothing more than a thick red pulp.

Breaking from the feelings of ectsasy, I pulled out before the blades hit knuckle. I smiled, taking a good look at my new hand. As for the growths–well, five down, and five to go.

There is an old hotel that has been around for hundreds of years. If you stay in Room 6, you will find yourself in an unknown place, where exactly at 12:16 AM the power will go out and you’ll be thrust into utter darkness. If you choose to stay awake, nothing will happen beyond that. But if you so much as close your eyes and fall asleep, you will find yourself in an unimaginable pit of despair, where creatures of fathomless shapes and sizes roam. You will be trapped here for hours, until the sun comes up. It is rumored that this room is a gate into hell, and that demons use the condensed evil of the room to escape into our reality through our minds. Those who have stayed in there rarely speak of it, for even recalling the night will put them in an uncontrollable frenzy.

The 51st state of the United States, Arcadia, was admitted to statehood on January 17th, 1977. Exactly 4 years to the day later, Arcadia disappeared along with all its residents, and all memory of its existence was erased from every mind in the world. Its precise former location is unknown, though there is rumored to be a map of the type sold in gas stations and convenience stores held under lock and key in the Library of Congress.

Also of note are claims of the sporadic delivery of mail from Arcadia, with modern postmarks, to several major American newspapers, the contents of which are said to be written in an entirely unknown and undecipherable language. Unfortunately, those letters to a one have been misplaced and are not available for examination.

There exists a spot in all forests, called “The Devil’s Circle” which is ubiquitous and yet nowhere at the same time. You may find it one day, for it to be gone the next. The spot is nothing more than a circle of evenly spaced stones, however, nothing lives inside of these stones-it is just barren dirt. During the day, it’s OK to touch it, and even stand within the circle. If you plant something in it, the next day it will be dead.

The real secret to the circle is if you put someone’s hair within it. Then the next day, they will die. Perhaps they die mysteriously in their sleep, or maybe even a car accident. However, in doing so, you give up your soul to the devil.

You ask yourself now “Is this true?”, but the more important question you must ask is, “Is it worth it?”

In 1990, a small meteorite was sighted in the night sky by the Hubble telescope. It appeared to be on a collision course with earth, but calculations showed that it was far too small and moving far too slowly to be a threat to our home planet.

In 1997, the long-forgotten meteorite entered the atmosphere.

It did not burn away, as scientists predicted; it barely even grew warm. Even so, it landed without drawing much attention on the outskirts of a village in the middle of Africa, on the edge of the Sahara.

Three months later, a safari expedition vanished while en route through the jungle. They never reached their checkpoint, within walking distance from the desert.

A research team in 1998 happened on the impact crater of the meteorite by chance. They detected high levels of radiation in the crater, though they could not identify what element had caused it. They drove to the nearby village to warn the locals of the danger, but the settlement was completely empty.

Not a soul nor a body could be found for miles around. The only evidence of life left, current or past, were the long-abandoned grbum huts, and a great number of footprints leading into the sands of the Sahara. None of the footprints could be matched against any living creature on record.

They say that somewhere in western America, some say in Utah, others say on the California coast, there’s a small motel on the side of the road.

When you go inside, it’s decorated in very common hotel attire, with the paneling and old fashioned key-lock doors.

The thing is, there’s a room in there for everybody. Everybody has a reservation for exactly when they show up, and the number of rooms available is always one more than the number of people there. One person to a room, that is the rule.

It’s said that the song “Hotel California” is based off this motel, though you *can* leave this particular motel.

I wouldn’t advise looking at a mirror for at least a month after doing so, though.

In Gjoberdik, a small fisherman’s village in the country of Bulgaria, on the dawn of January the first everyone closes their curtains and hold their breath for half a minute. Hours after the craze of midnight’s celebrations, children look questioning at their worried parents, but can not help to shiver in the embrace of their shaking parents.

One can hear the sound of bells being struck exactly 25 times last year, in this short timespan. The nearest church however, is over 32 miles away. You will find no one out on the streets in these faithful 30 seconds, and even the birds will stop whistling.

Some have gone out of their houses, roaring boldly in disbelief of this century old tradition. On the first sunset of this year, two people gambled their fate in the very first rays of sunlight.

The next dawn, the bells will be struck 27 times.

They’re creepypasta posts. Just reposting creepy short stories…

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask with no hesitation to visit someone who calls himself “The Holder of the Present.” The worker will look at you vaguely; you have to ask him again. Once the worker understands your question he will lead you through a door into a hallway that looks like it’s an extension of Hell itself.

In this hallway you will find nothing but darkness and the feeling of unimaginable horror. If you should hear a shriek coming from the left of you, start running towards the door you just came from or you will be devoured by demons yelling incomprehensible babble from mouths awash with vile poison.

If you should hear a shriek coming from the right of you, start running towards the door that your path leads to. Ignore the worker and keep running until you reach the door. If you should hear another shriek coming from anywhere around you, close your eyes and pray to the gods that your death will be a swift one.

Should you not hear a shriek, just follow the worker until he unlocks the door at the other end of the hallway. He will now ask you to enter, and he will leave.

In this room you will only find two things: a naked girl whose left hand is a mangled stump, seemingly torn to shreds by an otherworldly maw, and the rusted key chain she is holding. You must look at the key chain and may not avert your eyes from it. You can say nothing, except ask her this one question: “Why do they belong together?”

Now move eyesight to the face of the girl. She will look at you and tell you the most gruesome story of the present, how this present has come to be, how it is now and eventually how it will be. The girl will slowly move towards you, do not move, and stay still until she is but one footstep away from you. She will put the shredded piece of rot that was once her left hand on your shoulder. She will then whisper into your ear, “The time has come, and now you must die.” Do not react to this statement. Just keep staring into her eyes and eventually you will feel something being pushed into your hand.

The key chain is object 17 of 538. Only the keys that are meant for it can be put on it, and all other keys shall be repelled.

In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask with no hesitation to visit someone who calls himself “The Holder of the Kips.” The worker will say nothing, but a single tear should fall from her eye.

She will guide you to a forgotten hallway in an abandoned wing of the run-down institution. She will not enter the hall with you, but will only look into your eyes with a cautious hope, her own expression seeming to beg for salvation. Should you enter the hall, you will not see much, save for the dirty, broken fragments of what were once beautifully carved ivory statuettes of Pikachus and Squirtles. Before long, you will hear a soft whimper from the other side, crying “**** yeah, Seaking”. Pay close attention, for if the whimper stops, then all hope is already lost. There is no use in running away.

As you turn the handle of the simple wooden door on the other side, a warm and cozy light will greet your face. You will find yourself in the bedroom of a young boy of ten and a half years. The boy himself will be sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of the bed, his only garment a trucker style cap, exposing the entirety of his pure body. He is the source of the tortured whimpers, and nothing you say to console him will end his torrent of stifled wails. “**** yeah Seaking…**** yeah Seaking…”

Only, if you ask him “What happened when it first evolved?” he will become silent to glance up towards your face. “Mudkip…kip” he will say, whispering. His beauty will render you breathless, and if you are still capable of any thought it will be only the realization that in him you see everything in this world that you truly love. You ****ing pedo. You turn him over and bumrape the **** out of him. Suddenly, you will realize that the boy is bleeding from his nether regions as a grotesque blue form emerges from the orifice between his legs. The object will pulsate with its own life, and you will find that it is hypnotizing you. Do not look away, for you do not wish to try its patience. THe form will evolve, before your eyes, into a Mudkip.

Soon, the room will disappear before your eyes, and you will be standing in the most serene clearing you have ever witnessed, and all of nature’s fauna that you recognize will go about their lives around you, with no fear of anything, not even death. You’ll find yourself surrounded by Mudkips.

The illusion will fade, and you will find yourself back in the room. You will find the boy lying dead on the floor, his face a mixture of agony and horror, his already decaying body feeding the now towering blue form and giving it a sinister glow.

That is object 407 of 2538. If you catch it then it will be yours, but if you let it master you then it will use your body to seek and bumemble all the pieces, no matter what the cost.