My CreepyPasta Stories

Skin Deep

Rory Larkin often asked himself why he had decided to visit the house on Baileigh street. Was it an attempt to show everyone that he was fearless and rational enough to discard some silly superstitions that reigned over the hearts and minds of Rasperville’s townsfolk? No, no and no. Rory knew that he had never been like this – he never tried to be something special and he definitely didn’t crave for much attention. It could also be a simple curiosity, an innocent attempt to check the existence of supernatural, especially since he could find a supposedly haunted house right there, in Rasperville.

This was more probable. Even as a child, Rory was fascinated with everything strange and mysterious. He enjoyed reading about the unsolved gruesome murders, weird cryptids, UFO sightings, but he never actually believed in anything paranormal, seeing this kind of stories as a simple amusement. Moreover, most of the really interesting cases took place far away from home, and they never concerned him directly. On the contrary, the House on Baileigh Street was just in a few miles from him, and nothing forbade him from paying it a visit after school.

Nevertheless, at some point Rory realized that it was not a simple curiosity that moved him. It was some deeper and darker instinct that pushes the man into the gloomy corners of reality, the same feeling that attracts a moth towards a burning candle. Rory hadn’t even tried to resist that powerful inner force, and now all he could do was to be sorry about it.

It was the late September afternoon when Rory stood before the house on Baileigh Street with a photo camera. Everything he had heard about this place flowed in his mind, and the boy started to feel goose bumps slowly covering his skin. Only a few months ago one could see its owner, the man named Edward Pine suspiciously walking down the streets of Rasperville. People who knew him described him as a strange and reclusive individual who avoided his neighbors, and although nobody ever saw him visiting any parties, he used to leave his home at nights. Nobody knew where he went, and, as it often happens, people suspected the worst.

One early morning, their suspicions realized. Edward Pine was arrested in the nearby park, his arms covered in blood, and a body of his victim lay under the closest tree. The man didn’t confess his guilt affirming that he had been framed by some supernatural force; the following morning he was found hanging in his cell. Most people were sure that Pine was the murderer, although a little evidence was discovered to confirm that. Nevertheless, soon afterwards, a new stream of dark rumors started to circulate around Rasperville. A few brave souls who approached now the abandoned house on Baileigh Street close enough reported hearing weird noises, often described as laughter, weeping or even singing. Unsurprisingly, nobody ever dared to go inside the house, and one could find the “for sale” sign near many of its neighboring houses.

As for Rory, he got used too much for the paranormal stories, and nothing in the world could make him believe in those rumors. However, the sole idea that he was going to be the first to enter the house after so much time sent chills down his spine. “I have nothing to fear,” he kept telling himself. “That’s all bullshit, and there’s nothing dangerous. I’ll just make a few shots here and there, and it will be over.” In any case, there was no way back after he had promised to make a few shots in the house and then upload the pictures on the Internet, as the ultimate proof that there was nothing paranormal about the alleged killer’s lair. At first, his friends laughed at his idea, then some of them tried to discourage him, but Rory was persistent. He tried to invite some kids to join him in this night expedition, but everyone refused, often giving some excuse. At first, their fear seemed laughable, but now standing before the house, Rory felt his skepticism slowly leaving his mind. Meanwhile it was getting dark, and having no urge to wait any longer, the boy walked on the porch and with a deep sigh opened the front door.

A wave of stale offensive air flowed over him, as Rory entered the house. He stepped slowly, as if he was afraid to violate the silence of this place. The house didn’t look that dilapidated, although the owner’s absence made itself known. A thin layer of dust covered most of the furniture, and the faded wallpapers started to peel at places. Looking around, Rory noticed some red-brown stains on the floor and sometimes on the walls. He crouched to take a closer look at them, and he could swear that they reminded him of clearly human footsteps. Their color doubtlessly gave out their origin: somebody had left these traces in blood.