In this, we shall make some horror stories. We don't have a theme, but personally I like the theme of old creepypasta's e.g, (Jeff the killer, Slender man, eyeless jack.)

i will make some soon.

Soooooo...just writing horror stories for fun? Very well, mes amis, let's see what I can cook up...

(this is my first time sharing my writing so i hope its fine)

This isn't an autobiography. This has been retold hundreds of times: the story of a kid now named Nash the Lost. This story is told so many times that it has lost most of its meaning, so it isn't very long. Once there was a kid about 16 years of age living with a mom and a dad, until they lost their lives in the most brutal car crash anyone has ever seen. He was lucky to be in the car and end up alive, but not to say he didn't go without injury, his right arm was completely dead, he couldn't move his arm, nor could he control it. His being alive, they called it divine intervention, but Nash [didn't] believe in any god. After the death of his parents, he wished upon the world “To feel what I felt that day,” and so it's told he went into the forest, made a pact with an evil force, and got marked by a ⦻ symbol. After his encounter with a malevolent force, he completed his wish upon the people at a forest hideaway. After his death, they examined his body and all his organs were dead and have been dead.

(Just like the buses that advertise their 100% biofuel mix, I've got to do the same. This story was 100% fueled by the candy my homeroom teachers gave out during today's standardized test. (Don't you all love the mints?) This is also only the beginning...so be prepared.)

Strange things only seemed to pile up around Mort. Slowly falling, accumulating, like detritus, or dust, illuminated by the sun's rays. For instance, no one in the village of Vaudeville could explain how ten tons of earth and stone fell upon his friend during a simple walk in the park. Or, for instance, how his mother and father died, exactly two weeks apart from each other, even as their hearts still beat. Or how the child had, on a day last November, predicted a storm was coming to the town. For nearly a month, Vaudeville was cut off from the world. 

Yes, no one in Vaudeville could explain just how Mort was the cause of all of these things, but they could feel it. They knew. They could not do anything to him -- they had no proof! -- but they all knew one simple thing: to stay away from the boy. 

The day upon which Vaudeville would be placed into the history books was a grim one: thick thunderclouds gathered ominously on the horizon, ready to unleash the heavens from above. People scurried through the town like ants, making plans and stocking up -- at least one of everything! -- before the storm hit. Although it is disputed today, several people said that they saw Mort making his way through the throngs of last-minute shoppers and then stopping, turning his face and upturned palms up towards the heavens as the rain began to fall. 

And fall it did! Some people were trapped inside their houses, watching as rivers of water flowed by, while others -- those who didn't get home quite on time -- either were crammed into buildings, shoving the doors shut for their lives, while others did not make it inside at all. And all the while, no one knew where Mort was.

The town church, a modest, two-story building with a large spire towering over the town, held thirty people, trapped inside by the waters. The door was boarded shut with wood, but the stained-glass windows had begun to strain, creaking and cracking under the wind. All the while, people lit lamps and sat in corners; played gin rummy with a deck of cards or got out incense and began to pray, or just stared outside, hoping that those they knew and loved were safe. One of these people, gloomily peering out a second-floor window, suddenly straightened up. He saw a figure -- the figure of a boy -- walking through the rain, striding through the water as if nothing was happening. He ran downstairs, obviously, and told his fellows what he had seen. They did not know who it was, but, they reasoned, it didn't much matter, for they would be dead soon enough, and they were more preoccupied with keeping themselves alive. 

Just as they had finished speaking, there came a knock -- three loud knocks, in fact, on the wooden doors of the church. Outside -- as they opened the door just a crack -- stood a short, hooded figure, who darted inside as soon as they let him. Taking off his hood, they saw it was the child -- Mort. He smiled, his yellow, shark-like teeth glimmering in the lamplight. "Hello," he said, in a voice more suited for cackles than pleasantries. Even just a simple greeting was akin to the most terrifying things. 

(Also my first time sharing writing -- other than school assignments.) 

Better than mine lol

Quote from Weslockes >>

(Just like the buses that advertise their 100% biofuel mix, I've got to do the same. This story was 100% fueled by the candy my homeroom teachers gave out during today's standardized test. (Don't you all love the mints?) This is also only the beginning...so be prepared.)

Strange things only seemed to pile up around Mort. Slowly falling, accumulating, like detritus, or dust, illuminated by the sun's rays. For instance, no one in the village of Vaudeville could explain how ten tons of earth and stone fell upon his friend during a simple walk in the park. Or, for instance, how his mother and father died, exactly two weeks apart from each other, even as their hearts still beat. Or how the child had, on a day last November, predicted a storm was coming to the town. For nearly a month, Vaudeville was cut off from the world. 

Yes, no one in Vaudeville could explain just how Mort was the cause of all of these things, but they could feel it. They knew. They could not do anything to him -- they had no proof! -- but they all knew one simple thing: to stay away from the boy. 

The day upon which Vaudeville would be placed into the history books was a grim one: thick thunderclouds gathered ominously on the horizon, ready to unleash the heavens from above. People scurried through the town like ants, making plans and stocking up -- at least one of everything! -- before the storm hit. Although it is disputed today, several people said that they saw Mort making his way through the throngs of last-minute shoppers and then stopping, turning his face and upturned palms up towards the heavens as the rain began to fall. 

And fall it did! Some people were trapped inside their houses, watching as rivers of water flowed by, while others -- those who didn't get home quite on time -- either were crammed into buildings, shoving the doors shut for their lives, while others did not make it inside at all. And all the while, no one knew where Mort was.

The town church, a modest, two-story building with a large spire towering over the town, held thirty people, trapped inside by the waters. The door was boarded shut with wood, but the stained-glass windows had begun to strain, creaking and cracking under the wind. All the while, people lit lamps and sat in corners; played gin rummy with a deck of cards or got out incense and began to pray, or just stared outside, hoping that those they knew and loved were safe. One of these people, gloomily peering out a second-floor window, suddenly straightened up. He saw a figure -- the figure of a boy -- walking through the rain, striding through the water as if nothing was happening. He ran downstairs, obviously, and told his fellows what he had seen. They did not know who it was, but, they reasoned, it didn't much matter, for they would be dead soon enough, and they were more preoccupied with keeping themselves alive. 

Just as they had finished speaking, there came a knock -- three loud knocks, in fact, on the wooden doors of the church. Outside -- as they opened the door just a crack -- stood a short, hooded figure, who darted inside as soon as they let him. Taking off his hood, they saw it was the child -- Mort. He smiled, his yellow, shark-like teeth glimmering in the lamplight. "Hello," he said, in a voice more suited for cackles than pleasantries. Even just a simple greeting was akin to the most terrifying things. 

(Also my first time sharing writing -- other than school assignments.) 

 

 My brain immediately thought of Mort from King Julian T_T

💀