Scary Stories and CreepyPasta's!

A Few Bad Apples Spoil The Bunch

Idaho's capital, Boise, there begins a thick string of mountains which hold the sun high above the natural peaks and hiding it as it descends when evening fades into night. Here, great forests are abundant, with many uninhabited acres either belonging to standard forests or state preserves, that dominate the land in for miles. Gorgeous natural lakes exist that descend hundreds of feet deep with not even so much as a soul around for many kilometers. Upon one of these great natural spectacles is the town of Little Loop, Idaho.

Residing in Custer County, near the state's center, the town's history for the main part is shrouded in moderate normalcy; nothing more than a drive through Idaho State Highway through Lemhi, and you will come across this friendly little woodland neighborhood deep in the vastness of the northern mountain state's heartland. In 1899 the town was founded under a locomotive company and middle-aged couple named Muriel and Heighton's and over many decades eventually sprung into one of those "everybody knows each other" neighborhoods that Idaho itself was expectedly so familiar with. With a population of 1,137 and the nearest college campus three miles further in the larger mountain town of Windhand, it was safe to say that the town of Little Loop was secure and alone.

The town itself is not much to behold. Upon the grass in the far reaches of Idaho State Highway, a certain slope will turn you slightly up the mountainside, not uncommon for the hilly overtones of Idaho's geographical layout, until you reach the tiny hamlet. This fairly remote, but fairly friendly mountain town area of Custer was merely nothing more than a miniature woodland village in the mountains. Houses were generally scattered, many in between peaceful wilderness and flowing streams and rivers. Farther out into the town, the woodland opened up and revealed the Little Loop suburbs, complete with aplenty of homes that stood under the blue of the immortal sky, overshadowed by more mountains. There was a small private high school in the area by the name of Highway High, which branched off from the state highway, of course derivative of the name of the long, lonesome stretch of road that connected the thick Idahoan mountains to the town. The hamlet had earned its name due to its circular structure of six woodland miles in total, 'looping' around a good deal of the portion of the forest. At the end of Windhand, past the end of the campus, a peak stretched slightly out of the mountain where one could overlook the vast forests below. So the townsfolk nice, the atmosphere free, the landscape a spectacle, the town overall - normal.

Until the post-Y2K days had hit and everything was altered drastically.

In the pre-winter of 2000, the first occurrence in a chain of incomprehensibly strange events ravaged Little Loop unexpectedly and with no warning. Over a period of slightly more than a month about half a dozen townsfolk had disappeared without a trace leaving no evidence behind of their existence whatsoever, save for irregularly shaped dirt gaps. Mabel Barrington, superstitious widowed eldest resident of the town had of course spouted monologues about the occult and the otherworldly, but other townsfolk even after these events remained skeptical of her yarn. Later on, The Loop's most recent death-by-assault would occur, after some equally unexplained murders - committed by the father of a family of five - a few years prior. For all the trouble it had seen, though, Little Loop never seemed to lose its steam. The residents could not forget the hell that ravaged it in the past, but they could suppress it and move on.

Hell would return to Little Loop on November the third, 2009.

On Roans Central, which was the suburban, more open portion of the town that revealed the sky overhead, a graduated university student previously attending Windhand Academy three miles down the road in Windhand was roused from his slumber by beams of morning light filtering through his window across from his bed. He moaned and stretched, propping himself upward onto the sheet and staring out into the open space of fields beyond his window. The grass rustled and weaved under the morning light, the rising sun lifting itself over the mountainous horizon casting the shadows of distant pine trees and the woodland that they belonged to. The sun beamed also onto the number of homes, lights off and quiet inside. The young man in nothing but his undies yawned fiercely and squirmed out of bed before trudging over to the blinds and grabbing each end harshly before pulling them together. Annoyed that he had been awoken so early on a Saturday by mere forget of closing the blinds the night before, he pried open one of his drawers and grabbed one of his standard articles of clothing; blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt, which he hastily applied. His clothing was often scattered disorderly in his drawers merely from a lack of care. Clothes were clothes.