creepypasta stories (DISCONTINUED)

The Creek of a Thousand Corpses

It was one of those stormy nights during my summer trip in the tropics when I stumbled upon that old tunnel. It was the longest and scariest night of my life. I did not think I would ever get out of that forest alive. I was badly injured, weather-beaten and suffering immensely from the cold when I emerged from the treeline. But here I am now a year later, back in Wittenberge, still recovering from the trauma and trying to forget that spine-chilling night I spent in the bowels of the earth alone. My hand still tortures me from time to time. There are days when the pain makes me desire death. The doctor said I was lucky. If I had waited a little bit longer, they would have had to amputate it. But now I am not sure anymore. Amputation seems like the best option for me.

My buddy Mario, a friendly dude, had invited me over for a summer vacation in one of the most beautiful and picturesque islands in Sulawesi, Indonesia. The trip drained my budget but I needed to get away from my life for a while. His hometown was breathtaking. It perched on the slope of an inactive volcano near the mouth of a narrow bay that looked more like an oversized lake. The people were warm and nice. I was always greeted by dozens of enthusiastic locals who would ask me to take photos with them wherever I went around the city. I guess I am what you call an average guy but for some reason, people there treated me like I just popped out of a movie or something. I have some rough edges, mind you. Nobody’s perfect. There were days when I would politely say no to them and they would scoff and tell me off as if I had just insulted them in the harshest way possible.

Mario told me that it was my blonde hair, super pale complexion, and the constant confused look on my face that made me look like a big dumb troll.

“You always look like you’re either confused or drunk. As if parts of your brains were in different time zones, man,” he told me one time. Well that’s one way to put it. I bet those people wrote funny captions for the photos.

Mario took me to these amazing places I had only ever seen in National Geographic magazines. Lush picturesque tropical forests. Hidden sandy white beaches with pristine crystal-clear waters that gleamed in the sun. And on my fifth day, he took me camping near this mangrove forest where estuarine crocodiles dwelled.

“Is it safe here?” I asked him warily while taking inventory of our surroundings.

“Just keep the fire burning!” he giggled, looking amused by my discomfort.

When we returned to the city he told me about this beautiful off-the-beaten path that stretched across a massive formation of hills on the southwestern part of the island. The nearest village rested on its western slope with large patches of heavily forested land, a three-hour walk from the main road. There were rumours circulating about the people in that village that they’re unfriendly towards strangers and they practiced dark magic or something like that.

“You ever heard about the legend of Popo’?” asked Mario one night when we were hanging out in his backyard, enjoying some cigars and cold beer.

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“What?” I chuckled. For some reason that strange word sounded funny to my ears and I thought I had misheard him.

“Popo’,” he repeated, grabbing another cigarette and lighting it up.

“No. What is Popo’?”

“Well, it’s not actually a ghost. More like a creature. A night creature.” He exhaled a puff of smoke in front of him.

“A vampire? Strigoi?”

He nodded a bit. “Something similar, yes. But Popo’ is a human being who practices dark magic.”

“That sounds terrifying. So what does a Popo’ do? They suck people’s blood?”