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Creepypasta Stories About Demons, Ghosts and Little Girls
Published 3 years, 1 month ago
Description
Good evening, it's Spooky Boo Rhodes from Sandcastle, California. Tonight I have for you two creepypasta scary stories about ghosts and little girls.
Are you curious about the world of Sandcastle? Visit my website at www.spookyboorhodes.com where you can get links to my other websites, podcasts, merchandise, and my books for sale.
Now let's begin...
My Sister Talks to Demonsby Tiamat Storm
My sister, Clara, is six years old. As six-year-olds go, she is relatively normal. She plays with Barbie and dozens of colored plastic horses sporting elaborately braided manes and tails. She plays with my old toys, Action Man and his truck with the big plastic gun - my favorite as a young boy. I'm now eighteen. The only truly striking thing about Clara is in six years of existence, she has never said a single word.
Mum and Dad tried everything: bribing, begging, scolding, grounding. It’s just an irrefutable fact, Clara doesn't talk to anyone.
It's Clara's birthday today. Her cake had a pink pony holding a bunch of balloons on it - now it lies in tatters, only the iced balloons have survived. Her gifts are laying in various stages of opening, she's asleep on Aunt Gloria's knee, sucking her thumb like a sleeping cherub. The gift Gloria gave her is the one thing she played with all day.
I hate it.
Looking at the thing makes me physically sick.
Aunt Gloria and Clara speak to each other. They never use words, and they never make a sound when in direct company, but they can hold entire conversations through eyebrow wiggles and gestures. It can be pretty spooky sometimes, but even her favorite auntie is locked out of Clara's thoughts.
Gloria gave Clara an old grotty necklace with a locket on it. The necklace itself is pewter formed into minute links, a chain snaking elegantly around Clara's fine porcelain wrist, the necklace itself clutched in her fist. The hideous black stone set into the locket seems to suck the warmth out of the air. There is something really wrong with that thing, I'm sure of that.
Midnight. Something has woken me up, it's Clara, standing in my doorway, the moonlight illuminating her from the landing window behind her. She looks pasty. Unwell. That damned necklace is nestled in her nightdress. Every few seconds a small hand goes up to the locket and fiddles with the clasp.
'Whassamatta?' I mumble, groggy from the sudden disturbance. Clara holds her nightdress away from her body and shifts her weight.
"Did you have an accident?" I whisper. She nods. I climb out of bed and shuffle over to her, crouching down to her level I say, "Let’s go to the bathroom then."
A little white hand entwines with mine and we slowly walk to the bathroom at the end of the hall. I clean her up and put her in clean nightclothes, going to take off the necklace she's become obsessed and fixed with, but she renders a boiling glare and a vehement shake of the head.
I withdraw my hand and leave the necklace be.
Thinking no more of it, I take her to my room and put her in my dry bed. It can wait till morning before I clean hers. I eventually nod off, sitting up with Clara huddled in my arms, the steady rise and fall of her chest soothing and familiar.
Over the next two weeks the bed wetting continues, it gets worse too. Now she alternates between waking my parents and me. Nobody is sleeping, nobody can rest, she's losing weight, refusing to eat and drink, crying and curling into a ball when we try to make her eat. We've been to the doctors several times, none can find an answer, they say Clara is being difficult and it will pass.
It didn't pass. It only got different. Now, she's head-butting the wall at night.
Last night, I walked into her room and she was sitting, facing the wall. Behind her a circle of toys - letter blocks, dolly shoes and the somewhat disturbing sight of heads ripped off Barbies - and on the walls, a crudely drawn picture, definitely the art of
Are you curious about the world of Sandcastle? Visit my website at www.spookyboorhodes.com where you can get links to my other websites, podcasts, merchandise, and my books for sale.
Now let's begin...
My Sister Talks to Demonsby Tiamat Storm
My sister, Clara, is six years old. As six-year-olds go, she is relatively normal. She plays with Barbie and dozens of colored plastic horses sporting elaborately braided manes and tails. She plays with my old toys, Action Man and his truck with the big plastic gun - my favorite as a young boy. I'm now eighteen. The only truly striking thing about Clara is in six years of existence, she has never said a single word.
Mum and Dad tried everything: bribing, begging, scolding, grounding. It’s just an irrefutable fact, Clara doesn't talk to anyone.
It's Clara's birthday today. Her cake had a pink pony holding a bunch of balloons on it - now it lies in tatters, only the iced balloons have survived. Her gifts are laying in various stages of opening, she's asleep on Aunt Gloria's knee, sucking her thumb like a sleeping cherub. The gift Gloria gave her is the one thing she played with all day.
I hate it.
Looking at the thing makes me physically sick.
Aunt Gloria and Clara speak to each other. They never use words, and they never make a sound when in direct company, but they can hold entire conversations through eyebrow wiggles and gestures. It can be pretty spooky sometimes, but even her favorite auntie is locked out of Clara's thoughts.
Gloria gave Clara an old grotty necklace with a locket on it. The necklace itself is pewter formed into minute links, a chain snaking elegantly around Clara's fine porcelain wrist, the necklace itself clutched in her fist. The hideous black stone set into the locket seems to suck the warmth out of the air. There is something really wrong with that thing, I'm sure of that.
Midnight. Something has woken me up, it's Clara, standing in my doorway, the moonlight illuminating her from the landing window behind her. She looks pasty. Unwell. That damned necklace is nestled in her nightdress. Every few seconds a small hand goes up to the locket and fiddles with the clasp.
'Whassamatta?' I mumble, groggy from the sudden disturbance. Clara holds her nightdress away from her body and shifts her weight.
"Did you have an accident?" I whisper. She nods. I climb out of bed and shuffle over to her, crouching down to her level I say, "Let’s go to the bathroom then."
A little white hand entwines with mine and we slowly walk to the bathroom at the end of the hall. I clean her up and put her in clean nightclothes, going to take off the necklace she's become obsessed and fixed with, but she renders a boiling glare and a vehement shake of the head.
I withdraw my hand and leave the necklace be.
Thinking no more of it, I take her to my room and put her in my dry bed. It can wait till morning before I clean hers. I eventually nod off, sitting up with Clara huddled in my arms, the steady rise and fall of her chest soothing and familiar.
Over the next two weeks the bed wetting continues, it gets worse too. Now she alternates between waking my parents and me. Nobody is sleeping, nobody can rest, she's losing weight, refusing to eat and drink, crying and curling into a ball when we try to make her eat. We've been to the doctors several times, none can find an answer, they say Clara is being difficult and it will pass.
It didn't pass. It only got different. Now, she's head-butting the wall at night.
Last night, I walked into her room and she was sitting, facing the wall. Behind her a circle of toys - letter blocks, dolly shoes and the somewhat disturbing sight of heads ripped off Barbies - and on the walls, a crudely drawn picture, definitely the art of