I have included some of my weird experiences and dreams in my creepypasta research book. I thought it would be a good idea to make a seperate book for just that!
ᓚᘏᗢ⁻ ᵀʰⁱˢ ᵃˢ ʷᵉˡˡ ᵃˢ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ⁱ ʷʳⁱᵗᵉ ⁱⁿ ᵗʰⁱˢ ᵇᵒᵒᵏ ᵃʳᵉ ᴿᴱᴬᴸ ᵉˣᵖᵉʳⁱᵉⁿᶜᵉˢ! ᴵ ᵏⁱⁿᵈ ᵒᶠ...
*My music box started playing by itself (09/04/2023)
I remember that like it was yesterday. We have that one music box, that i have memories of since i was a child. It was my mother's before me, and we are all very fond of it, no matter how creepy and unsetling the music may be. It used to be a very happy melody, that i sadly never got to listen, because before i was born, it started playing slower and now the song can not even be recognized. (it was a greek lullaby)
I have these vivid memories from my childhood, when it would start playing by itself in the middle of the night. it would happen so often that mmy grandma had to take it out of my bedroom, as it would scare me so bad that i wouldn't sleep.
I know it's paradoxical, it scared me yet it comforted me.
Last year was the last time it happened (even though I expect it to happen again). It was in a shelf in my grandma's room. I was passing right outside of her door, when I heard this eerie music coming from inside. My grandma was asleep, but I heard her whisper something, so I went inside to check.
"Oh dear, thank you for winding it, I missed that melody."
I froze, I went straight to call grandpa to tell him it happened again. "I know, it doesn't stop, I don't have the heart to tell her"
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ᓚᘏᗢ- Ι wish i could include a recording of it, because even if i let you hear the actual song you wouldn't think it's creepy. The destrorted melody it now has is the eerie thing about it. Well again i could show you the box, so here it is!
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PS. I remember the little girl blinking and moving by itself. I don't know if its visible but there is glue under her feet.
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ᓚᘏᗢ- another rewrite
"In a home where the threads of past and present intertwine, there lies an object of both affection and dread—a music box, its origins as old as the memories it evokes. This tale, a chilling serenade to the unseen forces that dwell within the familiar, begins with a melody twisted by time."
The music box, an heirloom passed down from my mother, holds a place of honor and mystery within our family. Its craftsmanship, intricate and delicate, belies the unsettling nature of the melody it harbors. A melody that was once a Greek lullaby, joyous and soothing, had, over the years, become something unrecognizable—a slow, distorted echo of its former self.
As a child, the music box was a source of both fascination and fear. Its notes, emerging unbidden in the dead of night, would fill my room with an eerie music that seemed to speak of otherworldly sorrow. The occurrences were so frequent, so unsettling, that my grandmother, in an effort to protect my sleep, banished the music box from my room.
Yet, despite the fear it instilled, the music box also offered a strange comfort. Its presence, a link to generations past, carried with it a sense of continuity and love, a reminder of those who had come before.
Last year, the music box stirred once more from its silent vigil. As I passed by my grandmother's room, the haunting melody drifted out to me, a ghostly whisper in the stillness. My grandmother, asleep, murmured words of thanks, believing I had wound the music box for her. The realization that the music had begun of its own accord sent a shiver down my spine.
I rushed to inform my grandpa, only to be met with a weary resignation. "I know," he said, "it doesn't stop. I don't have the heart to tell her." His words, heavy with the weight of unspoken understanding, hinted at a truth we all felt but dared not acknowledge—the music box, bound by unseen forces, was a conduit to the past, a vessel for messages we were only beginning to comprehend.
The melody, though distorted and eerie, was not merely a malfunction of mechanics. It was an expression of something deeper, a connection to a realm beyond our own. The music box, with its slow, haunting tune, bridged the gap between the living and the departed, between memory and presence.
I often wish I could capture the eerie melody, share it with others to confirm that its unsettling nature is not a product of my imagination. But I know that no recording could truly convey the essence of the music box's song. It is not just the notes that chill the spine, but the knowledge of their origin, the understanding that the melody is shaped not by gears and springs, but by the hands of those who no longer walk among us.
In the end, the music box remains a cherished yet eerie guardian of our family's history. Its song, a lullaby to the unseen, continues to weave a tapestry of mystery and connection, a reminder that some things, though changed by time, never truly leave us.
