Tag Archives: short story

The Tunnels – WFTI Podcast

Hey everyone!

I just wanted to share that our newest podcast is out! It’s based on a story that hasn’t appeared on the site yet, and I hope you enjoy it. So far we’ve put the most work in to this one and I think it shows. As always, thanks to Graham for the great audio work.

Enjoy, and if you like it, subscribe to the channel and like the video! You can do this through clicking the “Watch on Youtube” video on the player.

And now, “The Tunnels.”

Thanks!

Chris

Episode 2 | The Old Church

Hey everyone!

It’s been a while in the making since we’re still getting a hang of this “YouTube” thing, but episode 2 of our creepypasta series is out!  The Old Church is one of my original stories written for a 100-word story competition, featured earlier on the site. Thanks again to Graham Grochocinski who does all of the amazing sound work and makes my voice barely tolerable!

If you like this, please check out our previous episode, Darkness.

Enjoy, like, and subscribe if you want to see more!

This week, on ‘Ghost Seekers!’

The green light on the recorder flicks on.

“Is there anyone here with us tonight” the man asks. He is sweating and probably looked even worse than normal in that nightvision camera they always use. The camera man swung around capturing the other two people with them. Another man and a woman looked on to the proceedings, occasionally casting their gaze to the ceilings as though ghosts would flock to the great arched heights like birds.

“Yep,” I say. I saw this show before. I’m surprised they haven’t faked anything so far this episode. Really is interesting to see how they film even if they have no idea what they’re doing.

“What’s your name?” the woman asks. She’s cute and must be a new addition to the show. Last time I had a chance to watch it was just the two guys, the fat one and the skinny one. Like Abbott and Costello meet the ghosts. Unless they already made that movie? Shit. Now this is going to bother me. You really do learn to take Google for granted.

“Tom,” I sigh. This is the third time this month I’ve answered that question.

“If you can, speak into the green light, it will let us hear you,” says the skinny guy.

“I know what a tape recorder is,” I say. They always give the dumbest instructions. It’s never like, ‘say the winning lottery numbers.’ Always, “what’s your name, are we alone here.” Why even ask that question. If someone is answering you clearly you’re not alone.

“Are you alone here?” The cute woman again. She seems very dedicated and in to the whole situation. I bet she wants to be an investigative reporter or something and this is her big break. Good for her.

“No,” I say.

Who’s here with you.

“Who’s here with you?” the fat guy asks.

Hah! Called it!

I look over, Jeff gives me a thumbs up and a big smile. Grim grinning ghost he is not.

“Jeff,” I say. I wish I could check the time but I didn’t wear a watch the day of the accident. Can’t beat myself up over it, hindsight after all. Jeff is just excited because there’s another team here. The last one he tugged on a guy’s sweater and brushed some poor teenage girl’s hair. The guy screamed, she fainted, and Jeff fell over. After that he couldn’t stand up for two days, he was so weak, but it’s all he will talk about anymore. Not like we get CNN or anything, so that’s the closest we get to current events. This just in, Jeff is clearly going to try again.

Everything is so rote now. They pull out the meter, I wave in front of it, they shit themselves when the green lights dance across the surface.

You know, maybe the show is fake and we’re the first to actually respond. I mean, we haven’t seen any other ghosts since the accident. Restoring some 14th century castle, you’d think there would be some creepy dead princes or something wandering around. But nope. Me and Jeff, brothers in arms since 2005.

What if we’re flukes?

“How did you die?”

“Stop asking such personal questions! Jesus that’s rude,” I say. Jeff shoots me a look.

“What, I didn’t ask her about how she plans on dying! ‘Oh, you and your asshole friend fell off some scaffolding, spoooooky.'”

“Are you a King? Or a Queen?” Jeff mumbles something into the recorder. Yes Jeff, haha, I get it, I’m the queen. Thanks, prick.

The skinny man stops the recorder and plays it back. Here we go, these guys have a camera crew, they seem legit, let’s hear those melodious pipes of mine.

‘Are you alone here?’ – static –

“It said ‘help me!’ I heard it!” says the fat guy.

Goddamnit.

Write or Die

Oh I had too much fun with this site. Write or Die is a website and writing program that force you to write. Just keeps you on task to make sure you hit out those 500 words in 15 minutes or whatever other goal you set for yourself. The program is $20 to buy, and can be tried on their site with limited settings for free.

Write or Die forces you to keep pace with your chosen WPM by flashing color whenever you slow down too much, and playing startling sounds once you’ve breached the barrier. It forced me to just write. I had to free form as quickly as possible, and it did actually get my heart rate up. I’m not sure if I’ll buy the software or not yet, but I recommend everyone give at least the trial a try (no download, straight through your browser.) Unfortunately I lost my first attempt, but it was amazing how much it kept me on task. Give it a shot and let me know what you think! I’ll try and write another entry on a stricter time frame and see how the results work.

Creative Writing

Just a bit of free form writing I started this morning. Nothing from my life except the horror. Dragonfly guy popped in my head when I woke up and I loved him too much. Bit of a break from horror.


The cold metal chair bites into my back as I listen to the latest speaker. I shouldn’t be slouching, but I feel like a kid stuck in church. The group had been billed as a fiction writing group, but if you add a podium, we could be an AA meeting. Hell, add some robes and we’re a cult.

The empty school gymnasium echoes as the poetry guy talks again. He just simply showed up and started reciting poems. Jasper, the guy that was running the group, tried to explain that this was for fiction writer’s and not a poetry jam, but the guy didn’t get it. We just kind of let him do his thing. It would be cool if his poetry didn’t suck so bad.

The overhead lights are shut off and we’re illuminated by a set of hastily placed work lamps. The janitor apologized and said the overhead’s were on a timer. I think he’s full of it though, and just wants us to leave.

Ok, poetry guy finished his introduction. My guess is the poem will be about his mother.

“My poem is entitled, ‘My Mother, Dragonfly.’” He beams.

I look around, some people have looks of pity for the guy, some are leaning heavily into their hands trying to stay awake. We just came off a long lecture about ‘showing, and not telling’ from Jasper. He told us all the ways we could show things.

“Mother dragonfly, your legs are not strong enough to walk, but you can fly,” poetry guy recites from a pristine piece of paper. It had been folded but the lines are so crisp that you can tell he had spent more than a minute folding it.

All the poems are like this. Last week was ‘Soaring mother eagle,’ and then before that ‘Proud mother lion.’ We all felt bad for the guy, clearly he had just lost his mom and was trying to express himself in the only way he knew how. I mean, even if it was just through rhyming animal facts he was still expressing himself.

Then his completely healthy mother picked him up from the meeting last week and now it’s gotten a bit weird.

I try to make eye contact with the cute girl across the way that writes about elves and dwarves and stuff. She’s beautiful in that ‘pre-taking off glasses’ moment in a high school movie kind of way. I never got that, half the time the girls were better looking with the glasses and messy hair. More unique.

Anyways, I tried talking to her last week, but found out quickly that she wasn’t into any universe but the one she made up. I made small talk while she explained the intricacies of her magic system. When I tried to explain my basics for what I feel makes great horror, she kept steering it back to the scary creatures occupying her world. I listened and smiled but it hurt, weren’t we here to share ideas? Also it hurt that she didn’t care a lick about my writing but the ideas thing is probably more important.

Applause struggles for life as the Dragonfly guy sits back down.

The next woman called up is in her forties and was just laid off. She told us this last week and I went home and teared up about it for a bit. She was good. I mean best seller good, but she couldn’t finish her manuscript for the life of her. Just kept re-editing and re-reading us the same passages. I wanted to tell her to submit it. It was about her life experiences as a single mother of two, having come from a nuclear family. It was touching, and I hadn’t worked up the nerve to ask for a manuscript but I think I will someday. I want to tell her to submit it to some literary agents, but I don’t.

I get up and read next. It’s more Gothic horror, and I’m starting to run out of ways to say ‘incomprehensible’ and ‘mind-shattering.’ The more I write, them more I lose the horror. I can’t put together a novel length story to save my life. I don’t write blood and guts, and I have no idea how to keep the story going past 1000 words. I went to a literary agent once, but they told me no one cared about a short story collection unless you’re established.

With that the meeting concludes. Jasper says he’ll see us next week because writing’s cheaper than therapy and we laugh. It’s a bittersweet laugh because I know half of us are in therapy. Hell, that’s probably why we’re writers.

I get up to go ask the single mother for her manuscript but stop myself. It feels wrong, it just feels so intimate to ask for something like that. I don’t want to pressure her into doing something with her work she doesn’t want to do yet. I walk away and catch up with the elves girl.

I ask her out on a date and she says yes. As we walk through the empty school halls and into the brisk winter night, she regaled me with the royal history of the Elven people of Aeri.