Tag: creepypasta

I Picked Up a Hitchhiker

I was driving through rural New Jersey when I saw him.

A hitchhiker, standing by the side of the road. Surprisingly well-dressed – black suit, slicked-back hair, narrow briefcase.

Now, I know I shouldn’t pick up hitchhikers. But I’m 6’ 4”, 230 pounds, with all kinds of hunting equipment in the back of my truck. It’s not like this prissy-assed businessman is going to beat me to death and leave me on the side of the road.

Besides, I need gas money.

“Hey, man,” I said, pulling over to the side of the road. “I’ll give you a lift, if you pay me for gas.”

“Of course,” he said in a polite, almost British, accent. He reached for his wallet, and pulled out three crisp, $20 bills. “This enough?”

I grinned. That’s way more than enough. I greedily snatched the money from him and clicked the locks. “Get in, bud.”

He climbed in. His blue eyes shifted from the crumpled Wendy’s wrapper on the dashboard, to the mysterious, sticky goo on the middle console.

“Sorry, the car’s not clean. I’m going hunting,” I said, turning back onto the highway.

“Hunting. Interesting,” he said, in a strangely enthusiastic tone. “Have you always liked to hunt?”

“No, it’s the funniest thing. Never thought I’d ever hunt. Love animals, got three dogs at home. But there are so many deer around these parts, when the winter comes… a lot of ‘em starve to death. Not to mention all the car accidents they cause.” I trailed off, and we fell into uncomfortable silence.

“Just hunting for the day, then?”

“No, my buddy Matt and I will be out there the whole weekend.”

He let out a laugh. “The whole weekend? Your wife’s a saint for letting you go.”

My wife? How did he – But then my eyes fell on the steering wheel, and the silver ring on my finger. “Ah, yeah. Mary’s a doll. She’s actually pregnant, you know. 5 months with a little girl.”

He gave me a crooked smile. “A girl, huh?”

“Yeah.”

I could feel him staring at me long after we had fallen into silence. It made me feel uncomfortable; I clicked on the radio.

“How did you meet Matt?” he asked, fiddling with the dial. All that came through was static.

That’s a weird question, I thought. “Um. He and Mary were close friends. So when we got married, I got to know him well.”

“Mmm-hmm,” the man said. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, and I was suddenly reminded of a psychiatrist.

“Are you a psychiatrist?” I blurted out.

He laughed. “Definitely not. I work in finance.”

“What type of finance?” It was my turn to ask the questions, now.

“Futures,” he replied, noncommittally.

I glanced over at him. A small smile was on his lips, and I noticed his fingers had gravitated from his lap to the briefcase at his feet.

My heart began to pound.

Click, click. He undid the clasps; the case creaked open.

“What’s in your briefcase?” I asked.

“Work.”

“What kind of –”

His long fingers disappeared into the darkness of the case. He was pulling something out! My body began to seize up; the steering wheel felt like ice under my fingers. “I have a lot of hunting equipment back there,” I said, “so you better not be –”

I stopped.

He was only pulling out a sheet of paper.

For a few minutes, he was quiet. Reading the paper, intently and silently, as if his life depended on it. Scrtch, scrtch – his fingers slid over it, as they traced the text.

Then he slipped it back into the case, and snapped it shut.

What was he reading? I thought. But before I could get the question out, he turned towards me. I could barely see his face in my peripheral vision; but I knew he was staring at me, for minutes on end.

Then he broke the silence.

“Don’t go hunting,” he said, his ice-blue eyes boring into me.

“What?”

“Turn the car around. Go home to Mary.”

“What?!”

“She needs you.” He paused. “Madeline needs you.”

I paled.

I never told him we were going to name our baby Madeline.

“How did you –”

“He’s going to make it look like an accident,” he said, his voice gravelly and halting. “Just a simple hunting accident. The most punishment he’ll endure is thirty-five minutes in the police station, writing out his statement.”

“But –”

“Let me off at that diner, up ahead. I like their Cobb salad very much.”

“Matt’s going to kill me? What are you talking about?”

He turned to me, eyes wide. “What are you talking about?”

“About what you just said!”

“All I said is I’d like you to let me off at the diner, please.” He pointed to the exit, curving off the highway. “You’re going to miss it if you don’t slow down.”

With a shaking hand, I clicked on my blinker. Pulled off the exit, into the parking lot. My heart pounded in time with the click-click-clicks of the cooling engine.

“Thank you for the ride,” he said, pulling his briefcase out with him. “Have a good drive, will you?”

I couldn’t squeak out a reply before the door slammed shut.

***

I didn’t believe him. But my nerves were too shot to continue the trip, either. I texted Matt that I was sick, turned around, and went home to Mary. Mary was thrilled; Matt was disappointed. A little too disappointed, if you ask me.

A month later, after ignoring most of Matt’s calls and texts (which became increasingly frequent and desperate), I heard a faint thumping noise at the door. When I flicked on the porch light — there was Matt, hunched over our doorknob.

Holding a lockpick.

We called the police. Since then, life has been great. Just a few months later, our wonderful little Madeline was born. And as soon as we got back from the hospital, on our doorstep was a little teddy bear, a pink bow sewed on its head. There wasn’t a return address, or a card of any kind.

But I think I know who it’s from.

The Streetlamp

Some kids have teddy bears. Others have blankets, dolls, or stuffed animals they fall asleep with.

I had something a bit different: a light.

My window faced a hill. And on that hill was a lone streetlamp, shining down on the road beneath it. Now, I knew that it was just some normal, boring old road. But in the minutes between sleep and wake, where my mind grew fuzzy and dreams started to thread into my consciousness, I imagined it as something more.

The streetlamp in Narnia, against falling snow. The lights of a mermaid colony, shimmering through ocean depths. The glow of a fairy, sitting on a rose petal in a deep forest.

But, one night –

The light was off.

“Mommy! Daddy!” I yelled down the hall, stomping my little feet across the carpet. “The light is gone!”

“What, your night-light?” Dad asked, setting his book on the couch. Mom was slumped on the other side, snoring lightly.

“Not that light! The light up on the hill!”

He followed me back into my bedroom, where I pointed wildly out the window. Through the sheer curtains, there was pitch black beyond. “Why is it gone, Daddy?”

“I don’t know why, Caroline,” he said, scooping me back into bed. “Maybe the lightbulb is out. Remember a week ago, when Mommy changed the lightbulb in the kitchen? Sometimes that happens to lights, and they need to be fixed.”

I nodded.

After another bedtime story, I drifted off into sleep. And when I woke up a few hours later, in the middle of the night –

The light was back on.

I smiled, snuggled against my pillow, and closed my eyes.


But the next night, the light was out again. And the next, and the next. I grew crankier, my sleep got worse. My parents, for the most part, ignored it.

But then something wonderful happened.

On Tuesday night, Mom had to go to the cell phone store over the hill. “Mommy! Let me come!” I begged, clawing at her shirt. “Please?”

“It’s almost your bedtime,” Mom said, shooting a look at Dad. He shrugged.

“Okay, you can come. But then you go right into bed, okay?”

I nodded.

And soon, we were driving up that familiar road, towards the streetlamp. I wanted to see what was wrong with it – was the lightbulb busted? Or some wires frayed? Then, I thought in my little kid brain, I could tell Mom how to fix it.

As we rounded the bend, though, I was in for a surprise.

The streetlamp was on.

Shining brightly like a beacon, its light glistening over the wet road. “It’s on, it’s on!” I cried, so loudly that the windows rattled. “See, Mommy?”

“Yes, honey,” she said, distractedly.

And it was still on when we made our way back. I was so excited, I was jumping up and down in my seat. Narnia, mermaids, and fairies all came rushing back into my head. When we got home, I ran down the hall, jumped into bed, and turned to the window.

No.

It was out.

I shot out of bed. How? I thought. We just saw it five minutes ago! It was on! Shining bright!

I ran over to the window. I grabbed a fistful of curtain and yanked it back. Where is it? I thought, glancing around wildly. Ithas to be here!

My eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Shadows faded into view. Gray against black, bulky and large.

Not the shape of a road and trees.

I pulled the curtain further, curious now.

And then I leapt back.

Two hands, cupped against the window.

Attached to the hulking shadow of a man.

I screamed.

No, there was nothing wrong with the streetlamp – nothing at all.

He was just blocking its light.

My Husband Left Me a Note

The floor was strewn with construction paper, glue sticks, and glitter. In the center was Emma, her hands on a pile of jagged, misshapen hearts.

“You should make a Valentine for Daddy,” she said.

“Daddy and I don’t really do… handmade valentines cut out of construction paper.” And I had too much on my mind for stupid crafts. Jack was mad at me – Cat, I’m supposed to get a call from a very important client. Don’t nag me! And where was Mr. Whiskers? If he ran away again –

“Why not?” Emma said, her scissors cutting wildly into the paper.

“It’s more of a kid thing, honey.”

Her face grew red, and she smeared the glitter with newfound ferocity. “I’m not a kid! I’m eight years old! Eight!

No, no, please don’t have a tantrum. I rushed to pick up a piece of construction paper.

I froze.

Underneath were several small pieces of paper.

I turned them over, and began to read. As expected – they were notes from my husband. He constantly left notes around the house, whether it was to warn us about the broken toilet seat or to tell us he loved us. The handwriting was much sloppier than usual, but still legible.

Together, they said:

CAT

I ALREADY GOT THE

CALL.

I’LL KNOW IF YOU

PUT YOUR PHONE DOWN

IN THE BASEMENT WITH MINE.

TONIGHT, I WANT YOUR BODY

I blushed, and grinned, and even suppressed a giggle. He’d been complaining, recently, how we were always glued to our phones, how we never interacted with each other… I didn’t realize he was talking about sex! And what a romantic idea – to lock away our phones, and have the night all to ourselves, without any distractions…

“Mom, what’s that?”

“Nothing,” I said, stuffing the notes into my pocket. “Uh, I’m going to look for Mr. Whiskers, okay?”


When Jack finally climbed into bed, I curled up against him. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight,” I said, in the best sultry voice I could muster.

He smiled at me. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

I let my hair brush against his neck, the satin chemise touch his back. “I got your note.”

“My note?”

“The one you left me in the dining room.” My fingers trailed up his leg, but he yanked it away.

“What are you talking about?”

Annoyed, I stood up, picked up my jeans, and fished for the note. “This one,” I said, throwing the crumpled pieces of paper onto the bed.

He eyed me cautiously, then picked up the notes – and frowned. “Cat, I didn’t write this.”

“Who did, then?” I said, my voice growing louder. “A ghost?”

Shuffling the pieces in his hands, his eyes grew wide; his frown grew deeper. “I think you read them in reverse order.”

“So?”

He stepped forward. In the dim light, he was white as a sheet. Hands shaking, he laid the pieces of paper on the nightstand. I walked over, my heart pounding, and read them slowly:

TONIGHT, I WANT YOUR BODY

IN THE BASEMENT WITH MINE.

PUT YOUR PHONE DOWN

I’LL KNOW IF YOU

CALL.

I ALREADY GOT THE

CAT

“We need to call the police,” he said, grabbing at his pocket. “Wait – where’s my phone?”

I backed away, staring at the floor.

“Cat? Where’s my phone?”

My heart pounded, and I heard ringing in my ears.

“I put our phones in the basement.”

The Rain Isn’t Water

I first noticed it when I was waiting for the bus.

It was raining. Harder than it had all month, all year. Everyone was crammed into the glass hutch, looking miserable, apparently without umbrellas. I stared at the scene, trying to decide which was worse: getting wet, or rubbing butts with strangers?

It was an easy decision.

I stood in the muddy grass. The rain pattered on my skin, soaking my shirt. Rivulets ran down my forehead, dripping into my eyes; I reached to wipe them away.

I froze.

The rainwater felt… different. It was mildly slippery – like a cross between water and oil. I wet my fingers and rolled them against each other, eyebrows knotted.

At first, I thought it was my imagination. But one look at the road told me it wasn’t. Cars were going much slower than usual on this road – maybe twenty miles an hour. And the ones that went faster seemed to careen towards the gutter, as if skidding.

I pulled out my phone, began to type “rain in Bloomfield.” That’s when I heard the scream.

I looked up. Across the sloshing mess of the street, two women were yelling and pointing at a man that had just exited the Starbucks.

“You’re bleeding!”

“Are you all right?”

At first, I thought he was wearing some sort of white shirt with red polka-dots. But as the rain beat down on him, the shirt grew redder. “Call an ambulance!” one of them said; I squinted at the scene, confused.

“I’m fine, really, I don’t know what’s going on,” the man said. “Please, don’t call anyone.”

That’s when I figured it out. The red dots were where raindrops had fallen. Red lines ran down his face and arms, dripping onto the sidewalk, tinting the puddles pink.

“I’m fine, really.”

Three days later, I saw his face on the news.

John Allard, 45, was arrested for murdering his wife in their home on Tuesday night. The trial will be held…

“That’s the guy,” I said, pointing wildly to the TV. “The one I told you about – out in the rain.”

Molly barely looked up. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said, as she rummaged through the kitchen cabinets.

Over the next few weeks, more people were caught in the rain. And upon touching a few, that rain ran blood-red, staining their clothes just like their hearts. Always, within a few days, they turned to some act of violence – whether it be murder, assault, or rape. The town of Bloomfield was in a state of chaos, a state of confusion. No one knew what was going on, or what to do about it.

Last night, we had another storm. Rain pounded across the back door; lightning flashed across the purple sky. I stood out on the deck, under the awning of the house, just watching.

“Molly, come out here. It’s beautiful!”

“The soup’s getting cold, Rick,” her voice called from the kitchen.

Lines of lightning flashed, cracking and webbing across the purple clouds. Nature’s fireworks show, Molly always said. “You love thunderstorms,” I called back. The rain picked up tempo, cutting into the awning. “Come out here and see it!”

She came to the door. “No. Come in and eat dinner with me,” she said through the screen.

“Just for a moment. It’s sort of romantic, come on.”

She sighed. “Okay, fine.”

Molly stepped cautiously out onto the deck. I threw my arm around her, and we stood there for a few moments, watching the lightning flash.

But then a gust of wind blew through, sending a spray of raindrops into my face. “Sorry about that,” I said, turning towards her. “Maybe I shouldn’t have forced you out here, after all –”

I froze.

Beads of blood stuck to her cheek.

“Uh, Molly?”

“What?”

She turned towards me. As she did, her arm poked out slightly from the awning. The rain glanced off it, turning to a deep crimson.

I backed away.

“Rick, wait,” she said, her eyes widening with recognition. With soft smacks, more drops hit her face; they dripped down her cheeks in dark lines.

I ran into the house. Click – I closed the door, turned the lock.

“Rick, please, open the door,” she said, as her shirt turned red and bloody.

I turned away, and picked up the phone.

***

The police found a bottle of ethylene glycol in the kitchen cupboard, half of it missing.

I like to think the rain caused her to do it. That all of us are innocent in Bloomfield, and we’re being manipulated by some unknown chemical dropping from the skies, choosing people to turn into monsters.

But I found the receipt for the poison.

It was dated six months ago.

It continues to rain here in Bloomfield. Every time I see the gray stormclouds overhead, my stomach ties up in knots, wondering what evil will be revealed.

But they’ve gotten smarter. When I drive down Main Street in the rain, only a few stragglers remain. The rest stay inside.

And the ones that do walk out –

Well, they’re smart enough to use their umbrellas.

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